


The Sweet Sound

by PetraTodd



Series: Romance with Thorns [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Bondage, Love is hell, Operas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock & Molly explore their fun but complicated romance as they investigate the attempted robbery of an opera singer, an old love of Mycroft's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Choruses of brava!s still ringing in her ears_ , Dora MacKenzie entered her hotel suite four hours after completing her run of _Lucia di Lammermoor_ at the Royal Opera House. Her return to Covent Garden after a lengthy illness was a triumph, and the diva hummed _Il dolce suono_ as she kicked her stiletto heels off and shimmied out of the navy-blue sheath of an evening gown she'd donned for the after-party. The gala had gone on too long, but there were countless donors to greet. Opera was hardly trendy these days; she did what she could to keep money flowing into the performing companies she was invited to appear with. She considered it part of her job.

 

Moving into the darkened bedroom, Dora reached into her elaborate updo of shiny black hair and began pulling out pins, creating a pile on the chest of drawers. A pair of blue diamond earrings joined the pins on the surface. The matching necklace, an obscenely large blue diamond stone dangling on a string of tiny white diamonds, was tossed carelessly onto the shining pile a moment later.

 

Several feet behind her, a curtain moved.

 

The soprano continued with her nighttime rituals, black hair loose on her shoulders as she crossed the room holding her tiny clutch to sit on the bed next to her everyday purse. Dora transferred a few pounds and a tube of lipstick from the clutch into the much larger bag, and rummaged around in it for a moment.

 

The drapes flew away from the window as a hulking dark-clad figure rushed out at the woman, her back still to him.

 

Dora swiveled around on the bed and pointed a small gun up at the intruder's chest. With momentum built up, he barely had time to widen his eyes before she squeezed the trigger.

 

He fell back to the floor, heaving and gasping, as blood poured from the hole in his chest. The man (he was, she saw now, in his twenties, white, scruffy, and blue-eyed) tried to speak and failed. He reached out a hand to the singer, who raised an elegant eyebrow.

 

"Trying to explain yourself before I dial 999? Piss off. " She started to reach for her mobile.

 

The man moaned in pain and blood bubbled over his lips with the tortured sound.

 

His eyes bulged with effort, as the young man lifted his head and gasped out, "Jo…Josephine," before passing out.

 

Dora froze, the enormity of her situation sinking in. The blood pool around him grew and after a minute, his torso stopped rising with breaths.

 

She cautiously crawled off the bed and held the gun out in front of her. Keeping it pointed at his chest, she reached down and grabbed his wrist.

 

Dora tried several times but she couldn't find a pulse _. If I'd gone to medical school like I'd considered instead of going to conservatory, maybe I'd have been able to save the dumb bastard,_ she thought ruefully.

 

She backed away, picked up her mobile and pressed a rarely used speed dial option.

 

"I…I've killed someone. At the hotel. I need you."

 

Wrapping herself in a long green silk robe, she went out to the common area of the suite and sat down on the luxurious two-seater. Dora lit a cigarette, and waited for him.

 

**_~.~.~_ **

**_  
_ **

_In the past few months, Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes had fallen into a comfortable pattern._ She couldn't call it a rhythm, because there was nothing regular about it, but their connections did occur in a way she could track.

 

He would sink himself into a case excitedly, and Molly wouldn't see him for several days. Then he would turn up on her doorstep at 2am, looking gaunt and exhausted but brimming with triumph and leftover intensity. He would drag her back to bed, overwhelming with her kisses, relearning the taste of her mouth while pushing her white cotton nightdress up to her waist. (He'd told her to stop wearing knickers to bed ages ago.) Finding a sweet place to suck and lick on her neck while he ground his groin against hers, fumbling in the dark, reclaiming her.

 

She'd welcome him happily, if a bit sleepily. He was rough enough to excite her, but too weary to play. The moment after he came inside her, he'd pass out, his now-lighter frame pressing her into the mattress in a tangle of long sweaty limbs.

 

In those quiet moments, before rolling him onto his side and drifting off to sleep herself, Molly would run her fingertips over his back and head, soothing herself as much as him. Listening to him breathe evenly, finally at rest. She would estimate how much weight he'd lost this time, and plot meals to help him gain some of it back before his next body-punishing mystery.

 

John Watson had taught her a bit about what Sherlock liked to eat, so she didn't have to play too much of a guessing game. ( _Guessing is sloppy_ , she heard Sherlock say in her mind.) He preferred ethnic foods with interesting spices, when he actually bothered to eat.

 

Angelo had parted with a few recipes for Italian dishes, so long as Molly promised to keep coming by with Sherlock. She did, of course. She didn't always feel like cooking after a long day at Bart's, and Angelo was such a sweetheart. He always brought them a candle for their table, and Angelo had greeted her like a daughter the first time she had gone there and Sherlock introduced her without fanfare as "my Molly." He didn't like to use specific terms or titles; she was simply _his_ , and the acknowledgment of that made her glow pink every time.

 

As a result of her and John's efforts, Sherlock had gained weight and wasn't losing as much as he had previously during his investigative benders. He looked healthier, less ethereal, and a touch thicker all over. Molly loved the sturdier look of his neck now and the matureness of his heavier jaw. He looked older and more dangerous. She probably shouldn't love that, but she did.

 

The mornings after he'd finish lengthier cases, Sherlock would laze around Molly's flat, recounting his deductions and allowing her to pick his brain about the case. She was developing a keener eye for observation and was noticing more details than ever during post-mortems.

 

Another change was that the oversized eyehook rope anchors that decorated Sherlock's bedroom at Baker Street could now be found all over Molly's flat. There wasn't a room in her place where she couldn't be restrained by a spider's web of soft rope constructed around her body. She didn't think she could describe to anyone how completely safe and free she felt when the ropes surrounded, bound her, lifted her up. Not without stuttering like an idiot and turning bright red, anyway. She was still working up the courage to discuss with her closest friends the nature of her relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

 

The kinky play and orgasmic sex she shared with Sherlock was lovely, but nothing beat lying in bed together, morning sunlight warming them as he explained the mystery. Eventually, she'd slip out of bed to prepare them breakfast before he could use sex to keep her off the subject of eating. If he really wanted her to stop cooking, he could order her. But he rarely did. He liked having her cater to him, he always had.

 

While she cooked in her tiny kitchen, Sherlock would shower, leaving behind a pile of clothes she couldn't cram into her washing machine fast enough. He desperately needed clean clothes and the enforced nudity kept him in her flat a few more hours. She had been trying to convince Sherlock to leave extra clothing at her place, but he resisted the idea with typical masculine skittishness.

 

 _Oh please,_ Molly thought to herself with a mental eye-rolling. _I'm not trying to marry you, you hopeless wanker._

_  
_

**~.~.~.~.~**

_He was not working on a case at the moment, however._ And in his usual way, Sherlock had become quite irritable, and his bondage on Molly grew more elaborate as he challenged his abilities to stave off the boredom of life without a mystery.

 

The previous evening, Molly and Sherlock had gone for a walk in Hyde Park and people-watched until it grew dark. She dreamed up colorful personal histories for each passer-by, which Sherlock would then scornfully reject as "romantic tripe," and then he'd deduce the truth of the strangers. When Molly questioned a deduction playfully, Sherlock would call the person over to confirm that he was right, usually horrifying the stranger with the exposure of his secret self and Molly with the awkwardness of having a brilliant but tactless lover. She understood now why Dr. Watson always looked like he was waiting for a bomb to drop when Sherlock opened his mouth.

 

She loved Sherlock's honesty, and didn't want him to change. It was just a little much to handle when it came to sensitive situations, like when he deduced in the park that a mother with a pram was lying about the paternity of her baby. Unfortunately, the "father" had been standing next to her at the time, and did not react favorably to Sherlock's suggestion that he get a DNA test.

 

Sherlock had called it a night on the deducing game after that, and walked Molly back to her building. Without asking, he followed her up to her flat.

 

"I've got to work tomorrow at 9, I don't know if I can stay up late," Molly explained as she searched for her keys. "It's been mad this week in the morgue, bloody accidents left and right these days, must be summer madness setting in- OH!" Molly gasped as Sherlock's teeth locked onto her earlobe, biting down as he pressed her back firmly against her door.

 

Molly got as far as a hesitant "Well, maybe we cou-" before Sherlock's clever hands were inside her coat, yanking up her shirt, pinching and stroking her nipples as he kissed his way down from her ear to her sensitive neck. His passion came on so suddenly, it actually made her breathless sometimes with the onslaught. One moment he was ice and stone; the next he was hot hands and a wet tongue tickling moans from her.

 

Not even caring she was in the semipublic area of her hallway, Molly dug her nails into Sherlock's shoulders and wrapped a leg around his arse to bring him closer to her center. He lifted his head from her neck, his springy dark curls brushing her mouth.

 

" _Can_ you stay up late, Molly?" he murmured as his lips grazed hers deliberately.

 

"Yes, yes," she nodded. God _yes_ she could, there was no way she'd be able to fall sleep now.

 

He slipped a hand down the front of her beige work trousers and under her knickers. A few pointed strokes and she was lifting her hips up hungrily for more. His face hovered in front of hers, him breathing in Molly's moans and observing her growing arousal with a focused gaze. She felt his changeable mood-ring eyes raking up and down her face and body, taking all of her in.

 

"In fact, Molly Hooper," his deep voice intoned as he stroked her- "I think if I keep doing this, you'd let me do anything I want to you. I think you'd let me fuck you right here against your door and you wouldn't give a damn who heard you coming."

 

Molly nodded quickly, her eyes huge and wanting as her hands roamed over his back and chest, pulling on him and begging without words for more touch, _harder_.

 

"Ask me then."

 

She looked at him with slight confusion for a few seconds, before understanding and blushing. She'd forgotten the rules.

 

"I…would you…would you right here?" she squeaked out, moving her hips and breathing heavily.

 

He responded only with a raised eyebrow, his eyes blueish-green now in the dim light.

 

Molly stilled herself and managed, "Please…would you…take…me here… _please?"_

_  
_

He pursed his lips, his face cool and dispassionate now as he considered her.

 

Sherlock nodded, never taking his eyes from hers.

 

Molly couldn't hold back her happy smile as Sherlock dove in to kiss her hard on the lips, as he withdrew his hands from her knickers. He slipped his index finger between their mouths, forcing her to taste herself as their tongues danced. Molly whimpered and went to wrap her arms around him again, but he stepped back suddenly.

 

"Open the door n _ow_."

 

**~.~.~.~.~**

 

 _Molly smoothed her hand over the small welts on her bottom,_ savoring the tingling and renewed warmth in her flesh as she stroked the flesh Sherlock had used so well the night before. She was prolonging her last moments in bed, enjoying the feeling of soft sheets sliding over her tender skin and muscles. Sherlock's crop lay on the floor where he'd tossed it last night after finishing with her bum.

 

Molly still surprised herself with how wildly she'd buck and push back onto his cock when he cropped her. It was like her body knew what she wanted more than her brain did, and the mild pain overrode her constant second-guessing of herself. It was hard to turn off her self-awareness and even harder sometimes to simply enjoy bodies for pleasure after a harrowing day at work. Giving in to her dom made it easier for her to relax and turn off her pathologist side. For that time, she was purely instinctual Molly. She was simply _his_.

 

Sherlock sat on her sofa, wide awake already she could tell by the rapid typing on her laptop's keyboard. He would stay there, comfortably nude, until it was time for her to go to work. Sometimes she caught him playing with Toby and throwing the toy mouse for the cat to chase.

 

He would deny it, of course, and glare at Toby for added effect. Toby returned his offended stares in kind. They were companionable enemies, both convinced that Molly adored them more.

 

Just as she was resolving to finally get up and shower, she heard a curious tapping on her door. Too soft for a heavy knocking fist, almost like the rapping of a light baton or something similar.

 

She couldn't think of a single person who would bother her this time of day. Her friends knew that with her unusual working hours at the morgue, it was a bad idea to stop by her flat without proper notice.

 

The pointed tapping persisted.

 

Molly shrugged on her old house robe, and went out to the sitting room, looking quizzically at Sherlock who hadn't gotten up from the sofa.

 

"I know who it is. Don't bother answering," he responded, in bored tones, without looking up from the laptop.

 

Unable to ignore the sound any longer, she unlocked the door and opened it slightly, peeking out.

 

On her doorstep was a dark-haired middle-aged man she'd never seen before, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and well-shined shoes that probably cost more than she made in a month.

 

The source of the annoying rapping appeared to be the sleek black umbrella in his hand.

 

**~.~.~.~.~**

 

 _Molly bustled around her kitchen making a pot of tea for the three of them_. She was thrilled to be meeting a member of Sherlock's family, even though they were clearly not on good terms. She'd never gotten details about the situation. She wouldn't have known he had a brother at all if she hadn't encountered Sherlock buying this brother an Atkins diet paperback at the bookstore on a remarkable day several months ago.

 

When she brought the tea set into her sitting area and sat down next to Sherlock, she saw he'd donned the robe she'd tossed at him just after Mycroft Holmes introduced himself and talked his way into her flat. The two men sat across from each other, as distant as strangers.

 

"This is not a social call, as you probably realize, Sherlock. I require your assistance with a matter that requires some discretion."

 

"No. Can't. I'm quite busy. Why are you here?"

 

"Because I don't have the time to do the legwork and you could use the money."

 

"No, I mean, why are you _here_? Why are you at Molly's flat? I knew you'd find out about her, of course, with your _eyes_ everywhere. But it's hardly necessary to bring her into your little power plays."

 

"Actually in this case, it would be. She's your pathologist, is she not?" Mycroft flipped through a folder in his lap. "If you take the case…and you will…she would become aware of the details within hours. Might as well fill her in myself, and meet the lovely young woman who's _swept_ my dear brother off his feet." Mycroft smiled sweetly but with teeth. "I worried you'd never settle down, and here Dr. Hooper was, all along. Mummy couldn't be more pleased."

 

Molly couldn't help but feel as she watched the two men speak that the real discussion was happening beneath the words. They constantly assessed one another and reacted; their body language, eye movements, and vocal inflection the real content of the meeting.

 

"Sorry…" Molly broke in. "What is it you think I could help with?" _And is Sherlock's Mummy really pleased he's seeing me?,_ she wanted to ask.

 

"A man broke into a hotel suite last night and was killed by the occupant. There was money and jewelry in the room, but the intruder chose to wait for the guest to return. They were unaware that the individual was prepared to defend themselves with a weapon. There was no identification on the body, no fingerprints on file. We'll check DNA, but that takes time, even for my people, and we need information now. I'd like you to take a look at the body with Dr. Hooper's assistance, interview the guest, and review the crime scene to see if you could offer some insight."

 

"Boring. Waste of time. Thief goes to a hotel, thinking it's easy money." Sherlock shrugged. "Waits for them to return to steal even more money. A dozen possibilities, all of them tedious. Why are you here, Mycroft? Why aren't you having one of your countless minions look into it?"

 

Mycroft tilted his head and waited.

 

"You don't want them to look into it…not British government business then, is it? Personal then. This _guest_ matters enough to you that you want me to take a look into what should be a trivial matter. You think there's more to it than a simple robbery. You won't look into it yourself though, even though there's _not_ a lot of legwork from what I can tell. If it was something to do with one of your favorite aides, you'd handle it and if it was Mummy or other family, you'd just tell me and count on _dear-old-sentiment_ to carry the day. So this is someone who matters to you on a personal level but that you don't want to see. Someone who matters so much you haven't even allowed your aide to accompany you up to this flat that has no wire taps or cameras inside it, unlike Baker Street."

 

Sherlock's eyes lit up with understanding and he chuckled, a long drawn out sound that caused Mycroft's nose to wrinkle in disgust for a few seconds before he resumed his pleasant neutral expression.

 

"So this important _guest_ is…someone you can't deduce? No. Merely someone you can't control. Ah, I remember those days. Before you were the British government." Sherlock laughed outright now. Molly was more confused than ever.

 

"Who is it, Sherlock?"

 

"The. One. It's _her."_

_  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One; And business as usual for Sherlock, Molly and John.

" _Her?"_

_  
_

"The only woman Mycroft ever brought home to Mummy, for one Christmas. She was a brilliant maths student back then, as I recall. They were thick as thieves at university. He did something to botch it up because she wisely never came home him with again. Dorothy MacKenzie was her name. Saw her in the papers a few years after that, going by _Dora_." Sherlock smirked at his elder brother, and continued.

 

"She wanted nothing to do with you after university, but you're still keeping tabs on her? How very surprising," the detective murmured as he sipped his tea. Molly shifted on the sofa next to him, uncomfortable with the unsubtle sniping.

 

Mycroft set down his cup and stood abruptly. Leaning on his umbrella, he narrowed his eyes at his younger brother.

 

"One of these days, Sherlock, you will realize that you are _not_ omnipotent. You do not know-"

 

He cut himself off with a frown, pinched his lips together, and strode to the door. He turned around, scanning the room before returning his gaze to Sherlock, and then spoke evenly.

 

"There's a body waiting for Dr. Hooper. Caucasian male, mid-twenties, with a bullet hole in his chest. This is the suite number of the shooting site, and the guest's mobile number." Sherlock's text message notification music began to play. "She's expecting a call. The crime scene has been preserved but all permanent evidence will be destroyed when you are done examining it, as will the body. None of this will have ever happened. I don't expect it will take you more than a few hours to work out why the attack occurred."

 

He opened the door, and paused to look back at Molly Hooper, who was struck dumb by the raw animosity between the brothers. _What the hell happened between these two? They're so alike, they should be best friends._ She'd never had a sister and had envied close sibling relationships. Seeing these jab at each other hurt. Sherlock had tried to be more considerate of her in the last few months, though he didn't always succeed. She'd almost forgotten what a complete _shit_ he could be to people when he was trying for it.

 

Mycroft inclined his head toward Molly, and smiled graciously. "It's been lovely to meet you, Dr. Hooper. I do hope I'll see you again."

 

"Yes!" Molly said a touch too loud. She was over-smiling to overcome to the awkwardness, she knew. _Why do I always do that? Ugh_. "I wish we'd had more chance to have a chat, get to know each other a bit. Some other time, M-Mr. Holmes?" she asked hopefully.

 

His eyes scanned around her flat once more, and then back to Molly.

 

"Dr. Hooper, I know everything I need to know. I could explain my deductions, but only an insecure man needs to display his reasoning for show." Another sharp smile aimed at his brother on the sofa.

 

He clasped Molly's hand, shaking it gently before strolling out the flat and down the stairs, the black umbrella resting on his shoulder.

 

"Sherl-"

 

"Get ready for work," he cut her off, his long fingers steepled in thought against his lips. "You're late."

 

"Oh dammit, you're right!" She ran to her shower, grabbing a towel on the way. As she waited for the water to heat up (her blasted building had a terrible old water boiler), she called out to Sherlock.

 

"What did he mean he knew _everything_ about me? I'm not quite used to anyone but you deducing me. It's a little kinky," she joked, but honestly, a second Holmes genius was a frightening thought. "Oh! And what do you think he saw in my flat? It's not too untidy right now, I think? He can't have seen too much."

 

She heard Sherlock's voice respond distantly over the roar of the faucet.

 

"…to go…John to meet me at the Dorchester to have a look…by Bart's when we're finished there." Followed by the sound of the door slamming.

 

 _Not even a kiss goodbye,_ Molly thought with a sigh as she climbed into her tepid shower. _There's no slowing Sherlock Holmes down when there's a case._ Although she wondered why he was accepting this one, when it was "tedious." _Why would he even care that it was an old friend- girlfriend?- of his brother's? Can his brother really make a body and a murder disappear? Creepy. And Sherlock was at his absolute worst with Mycroft. Really quite petty and mean. If I weren't already in love with Sherlock Holmes, I'd hate him. Although when he's snarky like that with me, I just want to please him and kiss him and have him bend me over a chair…oh God, I'm weird._

_  
_

Molly giggled. She was okay with weird.

 

**~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

_Let's have us a nice day and forget the silliness this morning,_ Molly thought as she gathered the tools needed to autopsy the nameless body with a bullet in his chest. There was no exit wound, so presumably the bullet was still in there.

 

 _Focus, focus,_ _nothing else matters_ , she chanted to herself as she donned her surgical gown and double-gloved her hands. She couldn't let the strange visit of Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock's childish behavior distract her from the body in front of her waiting to be cut. No matter that this was the corpse the elder Mr. Holmes had delivered to her morgue. In a post-mortem, her only concern was the anatomy under her hands. Sherlock was a genius at discovering secrets in his way, but Molly Hooper uncovered mysteries with her own remarkable methods.

 

And there was no puzzle like the human body, a design that seemed almost poetic until you reduced organized flesh to fragile tissue, bone, and pools of chemicals. The body's past and present, and the seeds of its thwarted future were all laid out for Dr. Molly Hooper's eyes.

 

She selected the scissors and the scalpel from the collection of tools, and set to work.

 

**~.~.~.~.~**

It was rather peaceful for a fresh crime scene in a busy hotel. If it weren't for the sizable amount of congealed blood on the bedroom carpet, it would be an ideal spot for a good night's rest. An anonymous man in a grey suit stood outside the door, the only personnel visible in or outside the suite. One of Mycroft's people, by the look of him. He let Sherlock in without speaking or looking him directly in the eye.

 

When Dr. John Watson arrived five minutes later, breathless from rushing to the Dorchester Hotel, he found Sherlock exiting the bedroom and headed toward him at the door.

 

John brightened up at the thought of a good murder case. The last few investigations hadn't been very exciting and he was getting nearly as grumpy as Sherlock. The daily hit count on his blog had been decreasing steadily in the past three weeks.

 

"Right. Where's the body? Actually- where is everyone? Have we beaten the forensics team to getting here?"

 

Sherlock flopped onto a sofa upholstered in shiny brocade, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

 

"Boring. There's nothing here at all. Body's at Bart's. They've probably ruined the evidence and lost the bloody bullet. For government agents, Mycroft's people have the subtlety of an Uzi." With the exasperated sigh of a child forced to do chores, Sherlock heaved himself off the sofa and bounded back into the bedroom, coat flapping around him.

 

John followed, nodding at the agent guarding the door and donning latex gloves taken from his pocket.

 

"What do you see, John?"

 

The doctor puffed out his cheeks, pursed his lips, scanning the room in an attempt to absorb the details that were probably already obvious to the consulting detective.

 

"Pool of blood on the carpet. Smell is still very strong and-" John reached a gloved hand down to test the texture with a fingertip-"still sticky, not entirely dry. Judging from the angle of the blood splatter and pooling…I'd say the shooter was on the bed, and the deceased fell back, but not far, to the floor."

 

Sherlock nodded, and paced impatiently. "Yes, yes, and?"

 

John looked around again. "Uh…the bed looks fresh made, so someone tidied up after the murder? No luggage, closets are empty. They took their time leaving. So, no one came to help the victim, no one…heard the gun fire?"

 

Sherlock shrugged. "It's possible. Or people heard it and thought it was somewhere else. Lots of buildings tightly together here and we're near the top of the hotel. I don't believe it matters in this instance, as it happens. Mycroft will take care of anyone who heard something. What else?"

 

"The room's posh. 3000 pounds a night, I'd estimate. And…that's it. So tell me, what have I missed?"

 

"You did quite well, John, spot on. You didn't miss much at all, besides the long synthetic black hairs on the furniture, the floor, and the sofa in the common area. The _synthetic_ is odd because someone so wealthy would usually go for human hair wigs, but no, she chose false hair. And the three Silk Cut cigarette butts in the ashtray in the main room, and the very fresh scratches made on the surface of the chest drawers; thin, light cuts probably made by jewelry scooped up in a hurry by a careless owner. She has a lot of jewelry. She likes it enough to make sure she brings it with her, but doesn't value it enough to be cautious. Interesting."

 

"You're sure it's a woman?"

 

"A handful of gem-covered jewelry, probably diamonds, and the red lipstick on the cigarettes do point in that direction, yes. "

 

"Oh right! Nicely done, Sherlock. Did a woman check into the suite or was it someone else?"

 

"She checked herself in. Actually, I know who it was already. Just wanted to give you a bit of fun." Sherlock's mouth curled up at one corner and his eyes crinkled.

 

"Wha- you dick, I ran all the way over here from Baker Street."

 

"You took a cab."

 

"Well I spent money, didn't I."

 

"It's 2.3 kilometres, John. Don't be dramatic. We're off to Bart's. I'll catch you up on Dorothy MacKenzie on the way over."

 

"I'm confused. Right, of course I am. Never mind. Let's go. Why are you wearing that bloody coat in this warm weather? Now who's being dramatic…"

 

"Pockets, John, pockets."

**~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Sherlock watched Molly's mouth as she rattled off the details of the thief's post-mortem, standing over the body which had been closed up again. It was interesting how her lips were so mobile and expressive, even though her mouth was rather small. He certainly knew from firsthand experience that she didn't need a large mouth to be capable of doing fascinating things with it.

 

Her dimples appeared as she made a groan-worthy joke about "taking a shot" at guessing the cause of death.

 

_The dimples frame her mouth and make it seem larger than it is. Her smiles show all over her face. Whole body actually- neck, shoulders, stomach, legs. You could hide her face and I'd still be able to read everything she felt and wanted in her figure. And you are losing focus here, Sherlock._

_  
_

He took the clipboard from Molly's hands as she was still speaking. She was startled, but relinquished the preliminary autopsy results to Sherlock out of long habit.

 

Flipping through the pages, Sherlock saw little that would paint the dead man as anything but an abject failure of a house breaker. Molly's information on the pages melded together with his own observations of the corpse to form one stream of thought in Sherlock's head.

 

 _Bullet cut through his aorta, death would've been almost instantaneous_. _Well done, Dorothy_. _No bruising or cuts anywhere on his body. In general decent health, though the slight yellow staining on his fingernails indicated a smoking habit. Lungs show beginnings of the damage from smoking. The rest of his hands were in good shape, no calluses, and clean fingernails. Soft. No tattoos or no distinguishing marks. No needle marks, but nasal sinuses show signs of cocaine abuse. No ring indents or tan lines on his fingers. (Unmarried) Three days' worth of hair growth on the face, but hair on his head was trimmed within the last two weeks._

_  
_

_Clothing of the deceased was delivered in a sealed container, good. No forensics team to examine everything, will have to do it myself but not enough time right now, and the evidence will be destroyed within hours. Hmmm. Why bother with a cover-up of a thief's death for the sake of some lover from twenty years ago? Her gun was illegal, no doubt, but with Mycroft's pull and Dora MacKenzie's fame in affluent circles, she wouldn't get any prison time. Why bother protecting her so extremely? Mycroft, always with the overkill, have to control everything._

_  
_

That he himself was guilty of the same thing never occurred to Sherlock.

 

_Summary: Deceased is new to theft. Likely has no record. Desperate for money, lazy, unskilled. Recent drug problem. Choice of that suite and the timing suggests someone pointed him toward Dorothy's room. He was hired, but not by someone with experience in crime. This is an amateur job. Lock wasn't tampered with, mechanism and key card reader intact. Conclusion: collaborating with a staff member at the front desk who provided a copy of the suite's key card. Card probably still in the trouser pockets, he would've been too stupid to get rid of it immediately after entering. Right._

_  
_

_Interview the singer. Identify the front desk person who was the dead man's partner. Determine why they selected MacKenzie's suite in particular. Notify Mycroft and extort large fee for one wasted day._

_  
_

Sherlock's entire analysis took about twenty seconds.

 

He popped open the container of the deceased's belongings, and found a neatly folded set of black clothes, topped by a white plastic card bearing the logo of the Dorchester and a note with Mycroft's distinctive spider-crawl handwriting.

 

" _Don't bother with the clothing. He has no pets or children, uses unscented store-brand laundry detergent, and has no mud on the clothes. A common brand of running shoes showing standard dirt and chemicals one would come into contact with in the neighborhood of the hotel. For an obvious amateur, he left little clues. Beginner's luck, one would suppose._

_Do give Dorothy my regards._

_MH"_

_  
_

He looked up at Molly and John, who were standing by patiently. She lifted her eyebrows and waited.

 

"We're done here. Molly, put the body away. Fancy meeting a famous opera singer, John?" He handed her back the clipboard and the pathologist added the pages to a folder of post-mortem paperwork and returned the corpse to the morgue cooler drawer.

 

"Actually, Sherlock, I've got to go, my shift at the clinic starts in 30 minutes. I can't skip out; they're short-staffed as it is." John looked at his watch again and wrinkled his brow.

 

"Fine. Go. I'll take Molly with me."

 

John's "Come again?" overlapped with Molly's "What?"

 

"Actually it might be better in this case. Woman-to-woman and all. She's a client, sort of, and not a suspect. No danger." He shrugged. He really did want to get going. All this chattering wasted so much time.

 

"How about it then, Dr. Hooper? You think you're ready for it?" For a second, she could almost swear that he winked at her. Sherlock Holmes didn't _wink_ at people, did he?

 

Molly's eyes lit up. She hurried to the sink, pulled off her surgical gloves and scrubbed her arms. When she was satisfied they were disinfected, she ran back to Sherlock and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. After a few seconds of surprised stillness, he dug his hands in her hair and took control of the kiss and deepened it.

 

"Right, I'm off," John called with a vague goodbye wave as he left the morgue. He was happy that Sherlock was in some sort of relationship, but it was still really strange to see him doing normal things like snogging his girlfriend. In a room where they had just been examining a corpse. It was bizarre, but it was Sherlock and it was Molly. "Normal" wouldn't have been right for them.

 

"So this is the woman that Mycroft was involved with? Old love, he still cares for her, she still trusts him. It's quite romantic, actually," Molly murmured against Sherlock's lips. His beautiful mouth. She loved tracing the triangles of his upper lip with her fingertips when he'd let her hands roam over him in bed, if she'd performed very well during their playing. She was fascinated with his anatomy, and not just the obvious sexual bits. He tolerated her explorations because it made her happy and the reward didn't require anything on his part but patience.

 

He stepped back and pulled Molly's arms down from his neck. With a hand on the small of her back, he steered her over to the office to fetch her cardigan.

 

"You're the romantic. Mycroft is a machine."

 

 _That's what they say about you,_ she thought but did not say out loud.

 

"And Dorothy? Or Dora? What about her, what is she?"

 

One corner of Sherlock's mouth curled up, as they exited the hospital and climbed into a cab.

 

"She's something else entirely. You'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Dora; the day ends unexpectedly for Molly.

The taxi carrying Sherlock and Molly came to a stop in front of an anonymous row of terraced houses in Chelsea. They hopped out and Molly shuffled her feet, uncertain of how to hold herself when faced with a sort-of client who was attacked the night before and was also a renowned opera diva. That wasn't a situation she encountered very often in the St. Bart's morgue _._

_  
_

_I'm working on a real case_ , she thought. _Though so far it's just taxis and Sherlock not talking to me. Why am I surprised, that's what he's like on all cases, did I think it would be different if I were working with him…but his intensity and ignoring is pretty sexy. I really am a masochist._

_  
_

She straightened her shoulders, smoothed her button-up blouse and pink cardigan down, tucked her white gold necklace with the padlock charm into her top, and followed Sherlock up to the door. He rang the bell by the rusting black numbers '442.' The door was opened by another well-built young man in a grey suit that bore a vague resemblance to the suite guard at the Dorchester. Molly wondered if all of Mycroft's people were chosen for their uniformity, or if they became uniform after working for him for a while.

 

"Hullo!" Molly chirped.

 

The guard looked at her without altering his expression. Opening the door wider, he gestured for them to enter.

 

"A safe house," Sherlock stated. "Still under his control, naturally. "

 

They were led into a plainly decorated sitting area, with one comfortable plush chair already occupied by a female, reading under a lamp. As they were escorted into the dim room, she looked up and smiled with both genuine warmth and confusion at the detective.

 

"My god, Sherlock, isn't it? It's been…what, twenty years? But I would never forget those eyes. And you look like Mycroft still."

 

Sherlock grimaced.

 

"Hello, Dorothy. Come to have a chat about your visitor last night. Nice job, by the way. Right through the heart."

 

She laughed softly as she moved forward with practiced grace. "A friend taught me how to shoot years ago. Every time I go to the States, I go to a shooting range to brush up. There have been some frighteningly persistent fans over the years. Better to be safe and illegal than proper and dead, I say. Sometimes I pretend it's your brother's face on the target." She winked and reached out to clasp Sherlock's hand.

 

Molly observed a barely suppressed smile on his face, in the tension around his mouth and the crinkles around his icy grey-green eyes. Dora had a dark sense of humor like her and Sherlock, it seemed. She was beginning to like this woman.

 

Dora MacKenzie led them over to the sofa, and sat back down in her chair gingerly. Expecting a much fancier style, Molly was surprised by her close-cropped brunette hair, no more than three inches long all over her head. With her face bathed in light, Molly could see gentle lines around the other woman's mouth and eyes. She was in her midforties with large brown eyes that sparkled even in the dim room. Her nose was strong and sharp, and her jaw firm with a singer's muscles. Her wide mouth with soft, full lips was the only vulnerable-looking part of her. She wasn't beautiful, but hers was a face that would catch a stranger's attention; the charisma was undeniable. Even in loose trousers and a worn baggy jumper, she was striking.

 

Realizing she was staring, Molly stuck her hand out and blurted, "I'm Molly Hooper! Lovely to meet you, Dorothy. Very nice."

 

She accepted Molly's proffered handshake. "Call me Dora, actually. Stopped going by the other at university, but Mycroft insists on using it. He's a pain in the arse. Where is he anyway? I thought he'd be down today. I don't fancy spending another day alone in this old place with his pet zombies. I've got a fundraiser to go to tomorrow. Will this all be settled by then?"

 

She extracted a Silk Cut from a pack, and asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

 

Sherlock leaned forward avidly, eyes lit up. "Not at all. I should mention Molly is a pathologist at St. Bart's, and performed the post-mortem on the fellow you took care of."

 

"A post-mortem? Is that necessary? I thought the problem was going…to go away." Dora lit her cigarette, and inhaled. Her exhaled smoke curled across the coffee table toward Molly and Sherlock. He sniffed and smiled blissfully.

 

"It will. The body's being removed from the morgue and in Mycroft's words, this 'will never have happened.' It would be good to determine why the attack happened or it could happen again. My brother is too lazy to help you, so here I am."

 

The singer raised an arched eyebrow. "He's not going to come, is he. The coward." She looked down at her cigarette. "Well then. Do you know I almost went to medical school instead of the conservatory?"

 

"Really! That's quite a difference in paths. Sherlock said you read mathematics at uni." Molly fiddled with her sleeves as she spoke. Sherlock looked bored. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

 

"Not such a difference really. Music, math and medicine; the three M's go together, my father used to say. He worked in a hospital."

 

"He was a doctor?"

 

Dora shook her head and grinned. "An orderly."

 

"Well this is fascinating," Sherlock broke in, using a tone that suggested the opposite. "But I'm wondering why you wear synthetic hair wigs, and more to the point, why you wear man-made diamonds? A woman like yourself, the circles you travel in, jewelry is a status symbol. The pricier, the better, yes? Have your adoring followers fallen on hard times?"

 

Dora's face betrayed true surprise. "How do you know that? Are there photos in the paper from yesterday's party? The HPHT diamonds created in the lab are virtually indistinguishable from true diamonds that take a billion years to form. And no child slaves were needed to make my jewelry."

 

"I couldn't work out why you would be so careless with diamonds and treat them as though they had little value. It's because they have _little value."_ Sherlock looked smug and smiled at Molly, waiting for her usual appreciation of his brilliance. She was more enthusiastic than John was, and her enthusiasm was more…enjoyable. She beamed up at him, and touched his wrist resting besides hers on the sofa.

 

"The synthetic diamonds can still be quite expensive, but they're easily replaced. I don't care about jewels, to be honest, but I've accepted an offer to endorse a line of HPHT diamonds commercially. The mass production of them will enable the company to sell them at prices much lower than 'real' gems, and they're more attractive than cubic zirconia." Dora added, "It's public knowledge; my accepting the offer was in the news and I've begun wearing the cultivated diamonds to events."

 

"So Mycroft knew this, and he also knew that the jewelry you were wearing wasn't that valuable. Which a half-decent thief should have known too. That's why he thought this case bore a closer look. Hmmm." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his knee in thought.

 

Molly cleared her throat and tentatively asked, "Is there anything that occurred last night during the attack, did he say or do anything other than come at you?"

 

Dora's forehead wrinkled in thought.

 

"I was taking out my hairpins; I like to have the pins out before I take off the wig because they get tangled up if I do it afterward," she explained. "I took off my necklace and earrings and then I saw the curtain move. Told myself that it was just a breeze but I knew it wasn't. I went to the bed and reached for the gun inside my purse. Not my evening clutch, but the bag I use every day. That one," she said, pointed at an oversized brown bag on the floor that was rather ugly but serviceable-looking. "I hadn't brought it with me to the opera of course, but I bring it when I'm driving long distances. I visited my mum in Manchester before the run of _Lucia_ began."

 

She lit another cigarette, and continued speaking. Sherlock leaned forward further and narrowed his eyes at the smoke. It was same expression Molly saw in his brilliant almond-shaped eyes when he had her bound to his bed and worked into a frenzy: barely controlled lust. Molly slipped her fingers into Sherlock's palm and he squeezed his hand around hers.

 

Their actions, however subtle, didn't escape Dora's sharp eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, and laughed softly.

 

"They're not easy, are they?"

 

"Sorry?" Molly was puzzled.

 

"Holmes men. They're not easy, but they're never dull, and that is a rare and gorgeous quality in this world, Molly." Though she spoke playfully, there was sadness in Dora's eyes.

 

Molly didn't know what to say. If this were a friend, she'd ask the questions in her mind about Dora and Mycroft and offer a friendly ear, but the singer was a virtual stranger.

 

Missing the undertone in Dora's comments, Sherlock pressed forward with the investigation.

 

"Will you be expected to wear these cultivated diamonds at this fundraiser tomorrow night? Who gifted you the jewelry, the company you're working for? Clearly you would not have purchased it for yourself."

 

"Yes, they were a gift actually, but not from the company. From the board of directors of the Royal Opera. They've been quite supportive of the movement to get away from using natural diamonds from mines. And yes, I'll be wearing my jewels. It's a formal ball. Haven't been to one in years, I'm actually quite looking forward to it. I'm not much for dancing anymore, but I can't resist a great dress."

 

She winked at Molly this time, who nodded with understanding. A proper ball was like something from a Disney cartoon. She wasn't a fashion-following sort of woman, but who didn't dream of descending a staircase in a princess ball gown?

 

"I'll wear one of my wigs that you speak so poorly of, Sherlock," Dora said mockingly. "Shall I be blonde or brunette tomorrow? Red will not do at all with my gown."

 

She sat up straighter in her chair and looked straight into Sherlock's eyes.

 

"If you are everything your brother had said you are over the years, then you ought to be able to deduce why I wear the wigs I do."

 

"Real hair for wigs very often comes from women who are exploited. If you have strong opinions about the diamond mines, it reasons that you would feel the same about hair. Also, synthetic hair wigs are much easier to care for and don't require styling in the same way as true hair. Which is ideal when someone is recovering from cancer and the effects of chemotherapy. By the by, does your oncologist know you've started smoking again? I'd say not."

 

She tensed. "How did you know? It was public knowledge that I was ill, but I had no desire to share the details with the press."

 

"Deduction."

 

"Obviously. " Recovered from the blunt reminder of her illness, Dora regained her spirit. "How? I used to love it when Mycroft would explain his little tricks to me."

 

"Tricks?" Sherlock sneered. But he couldn't resist the chance to show off. "Judging by your hair length, I'd estimate you ceased treatment less than four months ago. The short haircut could suggest a lack of vanity, but you've clearly dyed it- some silver is beginning to show at the roots and the shade of chestnut you chose doesn't quite match the darker roots. Your clothing is too big- you've lost weight lately but you're very comfortable in them, so I don't think you borrowed the ensemble. People don't sit that comfortably in other people's clothes, they just don't. And you 'don't do much dancing anymore.' You're not old enough to be getting frail. You've been ill."

 

Molly bit her lip. It felt quite rude to be turned on Sherlock's intelligence when he was discussing someone's illness, but his dark feline purr explaining a brutal analysis never failed to make her squirm. And he knew it too. As he spoke, still holding her hand, one fingertip traced light circles on her palm. It might come across as absent-minded to someone else, but it was very deliberate. _The bastard._

_  
_

"Impressive, Sherlock, very impressive. You're almost as clever as your brother. I used to wonder if you'd surpass him someday. I told him as much on the holiday I spent with your family, and he was so angry with me, he slept on the floor. Well, for a few hours anyway." She shrugged and one corner of her mouth quirked upward.

 

"Will the board of directors be attending the ball tomorrow?"

 

"Of course, it's a fundraiser for the opera. They'd never miss an opportunity to woo the wealthy."

 

"Then we'll be there too. Can you get us invitations or shall we contact Mycroft to handle that?"

 

"You'll come as my guests. Please. I'm the bloody star, I can bring who I like. OH!" Dora gasped.

 

Sherlock and Molly looked around for a source of alarm.

 

"I completely forgot until now, I can't believe it. He said something!"

 

"Who said something?" Molly queried.

 

"The man in the suite, the dead man. When he was lying on the ground, bleeding. He- he called me Josephine. I thought he must be delirious at the time. Is there any chance he was just a madman, some sort of deranged fan after all?"

 

"I doubt it. Josephine, Josephine…" Sherlock pulled out his smartphone and was looking something up on the internet, Molly could see.

 

"Is this list of the board of the Royal Opera accurate and up to date?" He flipped the phone around for Dora's perusal.

 

"Yes, it is. You think one of them has something to do with this?"

 

"Yes. And tomorrow night, I'll tell you which one tried to retrieve the necklace. Bit of research to do, first. Mycroft will have to provide Molly something to wear tomorrow, I doubt she has a ball gown in her closet."

 

"A ball gown for me…I'm going with you?"

 

"Of course. I could bring John, but people would talk even more than they already do."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

**Sorry I had to run back to Bart's. Let me know about the ball.**

**Molly**

**  
**

**Come here now.**

**SH**

**  
**

**Alright but I have to stop by mine and feed Toby first.**

**Molly**

**  
**

**Fine. Hurry.**

**SH**

**  
**

**Yes sir. :)**

**Molly**

**  
**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Sherlock opened the door to 221B, ushered Molly through the common area and straight back to his bedroom while stripping her cardigan off her. She never even saw John on the sofa shrug to himself, grin and turn up the volume on the telly.

 

Molly found herself flat on her back on Sherlock's firm bed two seconds after entering the room. Sherlock pulled her shoes, socks, trousers and knickers off with impressive speed, stripped himself naked and crawled on top of her.

 

Grasping the central edges of her buttoned blouse, Sherlock demanded, "You don't care for this blouse at all, do you."

 

"No, no, not at all," Molly gasped out. "Please."

 

With that, he yanked the blouse apart, tearing off the first three buttons. Another pull and the other three buttons flew off, and the shirt parted. Her breasts had already spilled out the top of the demicup bra when she'd toppled onto the bed ungracefully. Her padlock charm necklace touched the top of her modest cleavage.

 

Sherlock grabbed her wrists and pinned them just over Molly's head while his mouth bent to bring her nipples to life with teeth and tongue.

 

"Sherlock." Molly managed to groan out. "It's…the case is still…you're working…why? I mean don't stop, please don't stop. But why…"

 

He lifted his head from her breasts, his dark curls tickling the sensitive skin over her collarbone. Moving up her body while keeping her wrists snug to the bed, he leaned back in and took her mouth. Molly felt the long day of autopsies and strange dynamics melt away, and she was free in the moment.

 

He lifted his head again and gazed down at Molly, his strange light eyes meeting her warm chocolate ones.

 

"You were, today, you were good. You were very good. Rewards…I don't know, it doesn't matter." He seemed frustrated by his confused response.

 

Molly lifted her lips to his again, straining against his hands on her arms. She didn't want him to release her, oh no. Having a challenge to struggle with was incredibly exciting. If the day had reminded her of anything, it was that.

 

They didn't last long the first time that night. Once he had tied her wrists to the headboard, and finished melting her down to her absolute core with his mouth and hands, he took her in a very basic way that would've been rough if she wasn't so wet and ready for it by then. As he came with a grimace and a sigh of relief inside her, Molly wondered if she would ever understand this man, her dom and her lover. She wondered what would be more exciting, understanding the secrets of his mind, or having the mystery remain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Ball Begins


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ball Begins

_Things had not gone according to plan._

_  
_

The night before, Sherlock had intended to go back down to the Dorchester to identify the desk clerk who had assisted the dead thief in entering the room, and find out who put the clerk up to the job. He was going to stake out the lobby for hours and observe the employees to deduce the likely culprit. Instead he had gone home to Baker Street to stew over his day, and tormented his violin until John had threatened to throw it _and_ him out the window if he didn't stop.

 

Instead of heading back to the luxurious old hotel, he had summoned Molly and she had come. She was a very, very good sub.

 

He had meant to draw it out, as a punishment for distracting him from his goal; tease her and ultimately deny her orgasm, and spend hours placing her into a diabolical s _hibari_ bondage design. Take her to new levels, and challenge her stamina as a submissive, and prove that he was truly her dominant, in absolute control.

 

Instead he had barely made it to the bedroom before he was inside her.

 

Instead of denying her orgasm, he made her come three times before letting her sleep.

 

At some point, hearing her distinctly Molly moans and happy squeaks and _oh Sherlocks_ had become more necessary than owning her. Although that was lovely, too.

 

And now he lay in his bed watching her sleep, trying to decide if it would undermine his dominance even further if he were to crawl under the sheets, between her legs, and wake her with his tongue.

 

He tapped his mouth with fidgeting fingers, looked away from her naked breasts, rising and falling with her sleeping breaths, and refocused on the day's plans.

 

He could justify his failure to follow-up at the Dorchester, he supposed. After all, he had already solved the case.

 

The desk clerk who made the key card was an arbitrary point; the source of the job was rather obvious once you knew where to look. The Board of Directors gave her the necklace with the huge blue diamond; that narrowed the list of suspects down to twelve men and women. Ten minutes of googling knocked the suspicious board members down to three, and another few minutes of hacking into their private portfolios identified board members Jacob and Caroline Cavill as substantial stockholders in the largest mined diamond distributor in the world. He memorized the pertinent details and their faces from photos online.

 

It had been obvious to Sherlock yesterday that the diamonds that Dora MacKenzie viewed as worthless were in fact quite valuable and not man-made. The board gifted her jewelry, she wore it as expected to a gala celebrating her run in _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , was photographed widely, and then someone attempted to retrieve the true diamonds in a robbery.

 

Hardly a criminal mastermind at work here. The clumsy use of drug addicts and underpaid desk clerks to carry out a theft made Sherlock long for the sort of deft and clever job Moriarty would have pulled.

 

Why bother retrieving the necklace when ruining Dora's reputation as an anti-diamond mine spokeswoman and endorser of lab-created gems was worth the investment _?_

_  
_

Ah.

 

_Josephine._

_  
_

The name echoed through the chambers of Sherlock's mind, bouncing against walls yesterday during the meeting with Dora. Somewhere between pulling up the list of the Board of Directors, and informing Molly she was coming to the ball, he had realized why they would go to the trouble of retrieving the jewelry given to Dora.

 

_Josephine- Josephine Baker-France-Empress Marie Josèphe called Josephine- Napoleon-Josephine of Sweden-Grand Duchess of Luxembourg Josephine- Little Women- Josephine "Jo" March- Josephine, Texas…_

" _The HPHT diamonds created in the lab are virtually indistinguishable from true diamonds…"_

_  
_

Unless the diamond is famous enough that it can't be mistaken for a fake. An infamous diamond thought lost, and long associated with love and madness.

 

The Blue Despair of Josephine. _Of course._

_  
_

**~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Molly Hooper had lost her voice. She stood still, mouth agape and brown eyes wide at the reflection in the full-length mirror.

 

Dora fluffed out the skirt of the gown, smoothing the hems, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

 

"Mycroft did a wonderful job choosing the gown. He may be an incredible pain in the arse but he does have exquisite taste," she added. "I had mine all picked out for tonight, but he had a different one delivered here. Can you believe the nerve? I should go _naked_ just to spite him. The problem is of course that the one he sent over for me is more beautiful than the one I'd chosen. That _bastard_."

 

Molly nodded and smiled absently without really listening. She'd never worn anything like this in her life. She wanted to savor the moment. She wanted to _live_ in this dress.

 

The ball gown was palest lilac, perfect for Molly's coloring, complimenting the softness of her dark eyes and light brown hair. The strapless dress was corset-backed, with a straight-neckline bodice that was smooth to the touch. She ran her hands over the silky fabric covering her abdomen tightly. The snugness of the corset lacing pushed her breasts up, making her look bustier than usual. The delicate cleavage made the sweet gown less innocent. The full bottom of the skirt was composed of endless layers of tulle. A single row of floral embroidery decorated the bottom border of the ball gown, but that was the only embellishment. It was understated in its loveliness and subtle in its sexiness; it was Molly.

 

Her only accessory was the white gold necklace she wore every day, the gift from Sherlock. Not being one for leather collars, he'd given her this necklace with the small padlock charm engraved with his initials hanging from the chain. She wore it every day, never taking it off, usually tucking it under her shirts at the hospital to keep it away from bodies she worked on.

 

The high heels were the only part of the ensemble that Molly was less certain of.

 

"What if I have to run?" she asked Dora.

 

"Why would you have to run? We'll be in a ball room full of people. Sherlock is deducing from afar and putting me on display in my jewels, isn't he?" Dora pulled Molly over to a chair, and began working on her makeup.

 

"Well, yes…but there always seems to be a lot of running and things going wrong with Sherlock's plans. He and Dr. Watson are always bashed up. I'm bringing my portable flats in my handbag." Molly winced as Dora sponged concealer around her eyes. The pathologist rarely bothered with makeup and when she did, it was usually no more than mascara and lipstick.

 

"Smart girl. But then you would have to be, to have won the heart of Sherlock Holmes."

 

Molly's cheeks grew pink, and she shook her head. "No, not his heart. He's just…he likes me. We're good. I do things for him, and he…it's hard to explain," Molly blushed redder, thinking of how Sherlock had given her the skilled dominating she'd dreamed of since she was a teen. "But…I don't think he knows what love is. I knew that when we started. He's not like other people. I love him for it, and I can't…expect him to be someone else now."

 

Dora studied Molly's face as she applied a light dusting of rouge. "Most women wouldn't accept that."

 

"Most men aren't Sherlock Holmes."

 

"I always knew he'd grow up to be up a heartbreaker. He was all gawkiness, arms and legs everywhere when I met him. But his eyes were so beautiful and his bone structure was amazing, even then. I used to tease Mycroft about not having inherited their mother's eyes the way Sherlock did. It was so fun getting a rise out of him." Dora's dark eyes shone with mischief. She set to work on Molly's eyes, applying two shades of eyeshadow before pulling out the mascara wand.

 

"Dora…" Molly hedged. "I know I have no right to ask, but what happened with you and Sherlock's brother?"

 

"Oh. The usual, you know. Keep your eyes wide open for a minute and stay still." Dora coated Molly's lashes with mascara and dabbed off the excess with a Q-tip. "We were young, and full of ideas. I wanted to sing and play with theorems and to see the world. He wanted to run it. His life requires a certain discretion. I had no wish to sit in a dusty government office building doing cryptography work for my boyfriend, or playing the diplomat's wife. I wanted to live my life according to my own rules and wishes, not his. Oh, at uni, it didn't matter so much, our goals, but when we graduated, our paths went in different directions."

 

"Were you really good at cryptography? That's quite interesting. I've never known anyone who did that. Well, except Sherlock, he's quite good with codes but…"

 

Dora smiled and nodded, and turned Molly around so she was facing the mirror again.

 

"It was something I did for fun at university. Mycroft and I used to send each other secret notes except we'd post them in public where no one else would understand them. I'd walk into a game theory lecture and see a message from him on the chalkboard, and spend the lecture deciphering it instead of paying attention. "

 

"That's really sweet," Molly said. The man Dora described sounded light years away from the stuffy government man that she'd met at her flat and that Sherlock spoke so poorly of.

 

"If you and he- Oh!" Molly exclaimed, realizing her makeup was complete- and stunning.

 

Dora's practiced hands had brought out the luminosity in Molly's wide brown eyes, and her lips shimmered pink, looking sweet and not as thin. Her skin, which had always been one of her best points she believed, was like porcelain under a smooth application of cover-up and light powder. Her hair was up in a simple twist that let a few curled tendrils slip out to rest at the base of her neck.

 

Molly's eyes watered. "I look beautiful!" she blurted out.

 

Dora laughed. "Don't cry. Jesus, you'll ruin it. I did my own makeup for the stage for years. It's fun to do it again. The last few years, when I was sick, I didn't get out much. Chemo made me like a different person. It was worse than cancer. Didn't want to bother anyone. It's nice to just…talk."

 

"I like you, Dora. Thank you."

 

"I like you too, Molly. You're interesting." Dora walked to the kitchen to wash makeup residue off her hands.

 

"Now it's my turn to get dressed. The men will be here in thirty minutes. Try not to move about too much. Or breathe too deeply actually. Do you want me to loosen the corset laces for now?"

 

"NO! I mean, no, it's alright." Molly shrugged and smiled slightly, stroking the tight bodice. "I don't mind it at all."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Thirty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang and another generic young agent in a grey suit answered the door after verifying that it was the expected parties.

 

Molly watched the two men enter and thought that it was unfair males could look incredibly handsome with so little effort when there was formalwear involved.

 

Sherlock Holmes in his every day black jacket and trousers and plain buttoned shirts was enough to make Molly stutter and blush.

 

Sherlock in a tuxedo with his hair freshly washed, pushed back with one rogue curl falling onto his forehead, made Molly lose all words and stare open-mouthed with hunger. His blueish-green eyes found her brown ones, and crinkled at the corners, taking in her blatant appreciation.

 

 _He's so beautiful. How did I get so lucky?_ she thought as he stepped into the foyer, letting the man behind him enter the house.

 

"I may not inspire that reaction, but I pass muster, yeah?" Dr. John Watson asked with a grin. He extended a hand to Dora. "I'm your escort, if that's alright with you. I'm Sherlock's friend. Colleague. John Watson. And I think we better be getting' on with it," he said looking at his watch. "Princess here couldn't decide whether to wear his black or his blue cummerbund tonight so we're running a bit late."

 

Sherlock shot him a dirty look, and took Molly's arm.

 

"My girlfriend Mary said she'd forgive me for taking you out if I got her an autograph," John said cheekily as he offered his arm to Dora.

 

"I think we can arrange that," she said, a dimple showing in her cheek as she accepted. "She must be an extremely understanding young woman."

 

"Oh she is," John said with affection. "She's amazing."

 

The guards escorted the foursome into the waiting limousine.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

The Royal Opera House glittered with lights and golden fabric hung on every available wall and doorway, lending the evening event a romantic air. The opera company had spared no expense for the fundraiser, and dozens of waiters wandered the ball room with cocktail trays of champagne.

Sherlock snagged two glasses for him and Molly, though he only pretended to sip his.

 

Dora entered the ballroom with flair, every inch the opera diva now in front of the public. She descended the staircase slowly, shoulders back, with slight tilts of her hips that swished the shimmering royal blue dress side to side. The sweetheart neckline of her gown perfectly displayed the brilliant white diamonds at her throat and the huge blue gem that hung from the priceless string of stones on her golden tanned skin.

 

She'd worn a brunette wig tonight in a chic bob designed to not upstage her stunning jewelry and elegant gown. Even Molly couldn't help but stare as the soprano made her grand entrance.

 

"No chance the Cavills missed that," Sherlock murmured. As soon as Dora's feet touched the floor of the main room, she was surrounded by adoring donors and fans. Her unobtrusive blond escort had gone unnoticed in all of this, as planned. He stayed by her side, holding her arm and scanning the crowd for anything suspicious. Mycroft's men were also interspersed in the crowd but Molly couldn't pick them out until Sherlock nudged her side and nodded toward a young man in a tuxedo. She recognized him as the first agent she'd met at the safe house, the day before.

 

"Sherlock, if your brother didn't want people to know about Dora, how is he getting the manpower here?" Molly whispered.

 

"He doesn't care if they know about the robber. They'll obey him regardless. It's his _feelings_ he doesn't want them knowing. That's why he left his aide Anthea downstairs when he came to your flat. Can't have his employees thinking he actually had a heart at one point. Do remember he's a bloody machine."

 

"Maybe he just wants people to think that," Molly said looking up at Sherlock. "Because then it's easier to keep things under control."

 

"Pfffft," he scoffed as his electric eyes searched the floor for Caroline and Jacob Cavill. "Don't go looking for romantic heroes where there are none, Molly. His actions speak loud and clear. He is the British government."

 

 _Yes, his actions speak loud and clear,_ Molly thought. _He mobilized dozens of agents, covered up a death, brought his brother into the situation and has been keeping an eye out for Dora for twenty years. I refuse to believe he is a machine. And you're not one either, Sherlock Holmes._

_  
_

But this was not the time to fight about that, no matter how much Molly wanted to challenge him. _Later_ , she promised herself. She sipped her champagne and reveled in the fantasy that this was a regular date and that Sherlock had no reason to be here other than wanting to dance the night away with her.

 

**~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Dora MacKenzie played her role flawlessly, engaging dozens of people in brief conversations in turn, moving from one couple to the next seamlessly, thanking them for their contribution to the arts.

 

She introduced John as a "physician and great friend," with her sly smile implying he was much more than that to her. He was charming as always, his blue eyes and easy humor winning over the ladies even as he kept his eyes open for any threat.

John turned pink all the way to his ears when a society matron 'accidentally' brushed up against his groin and slipped her mobile number in his pocket.

 

The music rose in a flowing waltz, and John took the opportunity to break away from the chatter.

 

"A dance, miss?" He offered his hand to Dora. She accepted gratefully, glad to take a break from the fundraiser schmoozing.

 

They rotated on the dance floor with two dozen other couples, including to John's surprise, Sherlock and Molly. They moved together naturally, her following his lead with grace he hadn't known the awkward pathologist was capable of.

 

 _God they're great together,_ John thought as he waltzed Dora around the ball room _. I don't think he even gets that. What an idiot. Maybe he'll figure it out. They'll be able to spend more time together when I move in with Mary. I need to tell him soon. God, how do I tell him? He can't deal with change. At least I thought he couldn't, but Molly's been a change and he's been healthier than ever. Shit, I don't know._

_  
_

John's reverie was interrupted by an insistent finger tapping on his shoulder. He snapped to attention and whipped his head around, his hackles raised. His raised shoulders slowly relaxed as he realized it was a safe face.

 

"I believe I can take it from here, Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes said pleasantly.

****


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ball continues, with complications.  
> ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~  
> Friendly neighborhood death/blood trigger warning. Nothing too bad, though.

"Dora?" John looked at her for approval.

 

"It's fine. Thank you for the dance, doctor." She smiled tightly, and John melted into the crowd as the opera diva allowed Mycroft to pull her into a gentle waltz.

 

"You look enchanting as always, Dorothy."

 

His hand on her back felt unbearably warm and comfortable. Dora felt light-headed for a moment, and adjusted the hand that Mycroft held firmly in his as they spun around the floor. He was taking over again, she could feel it happening but could never stop it.

 

"Mmm yes, in the gown you picked out. What was wrong with the red one I chose?" She stepped back with the rhythm of the music and he drew her close again in response.

 

"It wouldn't have suited the blue diamonds you were going to be wearing. They're the key. I knew Sherlock would get there eventually," he explained before she could question what he meant.

 

"Where have you been?"

 

"I thought you didn't want to see me. That was the impression I gathered when at least a dozen people knew you had cancer before I did."

 

She spun out of a turn, her skirt swirling as their arms stretched and barely connected.

 

"I had to do it on my own. If I was going to run my own life, I was damn well going to handle my death." Her eyes glinted with suppressed anger. _Why is it always so easy for him to piss me off?_

_  
_

"And yet here you are, alive and well." He paused and tilted his head. "I wish you would allow me to help you when it doesn't involve dead thieves."

 

"You did help me before that. When Europe's top oncologist suddenly had an opening available to see me, you don't think I was slightly suspicious?"

 

A corner of his mouth curled up. "I didn't say I _hadn't_ helped you, just that I wish you would _allow_ me to."

 

Dora opened her mouth but couldn't find any words to say that she knew Mycroft wouldn't immediately see through as false. Her glib charm never worked on him.

 

The music faded to a gradual stop, and some couples wandered off the floor. Dora stepped out of his arms. A new slow number flowed from the small orchestra tucked discreetly in the alcove.

 

"One more?" he asked, rare intensity showing through his pleasant mask. "Please."

 

She gave him her hand again.

 

His blue eyes bore into her dark ones as they swung together in time. She knew people must be wondering who this new man was, and why she would abandon her charming blond doctor for this average-looking older fellow who was nobody important as far as they could tell.

 

There was really no accounting for taste. This hyperintellectual government suit had stolen her heart when she was just Dorothy MacKenzie, an unusually clever girl from a housing estate in Manchester, and never given it back. She had had her affairs over the years, across four continents, but no star baritones or handsome actors had ever come close to exciting her like Mycroft Holmes.

 

She had last seen him three years ago in Tokyo, a month after her initial diagnosis, across a busy restaurant as she sat down for sushi with a popular but dull maestro. Mycroft was surrounded by anonymous well-dressed men, shaking hands and speaking in rapid Japanese. She'd believed he was unaware of her presence until a waitress placed a cocktail she hadn't ordered in front of Dora.

 

Underneath the drink was a napkin covered in familiar spider-crawl writing. The words weren't in English or any other language, but it was a system she recognized nonetheless.

 

Dora bit her lip, and dunked the napkin into the glass, the alcohol dissolving the ink. She excused herself from the table, and arranged a flight back to London that evening.

 

It wasn't the last she had heard from him though.

 

"The message in Times Square last spring was a little over the top, don't you think?" Dora asked, as Mycroft guided her across the floor.

 

"Perhaps. It seemed necessary since you were being so stubborn. We've never gone this long without seeing each other before."

 

They both smiled begrudgingly, remembering how her name and then a string of nonsensical letters and numbers had flowed across the news ticker in Times Square, in front of where Dora had stopped to have a cigarette. She'd barely had the time to get the characters scribbled down on an envelope before the ticker's "glitch" fixed itself and returned to the usual stock reports.

 

"Took me an hour to work out the code. I'm getting rusty."

 

"You're as brilliant as ever. It was double-encrypted to keep you interested. You didn't heed the message though." His brow wrinkled for a few seconds before smoothing over, and his placid public half-smile returned as they moved to the music.

 

He observed Sherlock and Molly standing off to the side, holding champagne glasses, as Dr. Watson wandered the perimeter of the ball room, searching for the Cavills still. Mycroft's men had eyes on the couple already but logic dictated that they would not make a move this evening. Tonight was for display and catching their attention.

 

"You know, when I was decrypting it and I realized how short the note was, I had the absurd thought that you'd sent me some sort of 'SURRENDER, DOROTHY' message." Mycroft and Dora laughed. "The Wizard of Oz" had been the bane of her existence since she was a child.

 

The smiles slid from their faces as they both recalled the message he had sent her across the ocean, through the busiest crossroads in the world.

 

It hadn't been "Surrender, Dorothy" but simply "Come back to me."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Sherlock had been introduced to every member of the Board of Directors, giving a different name to each, except for the two he was interested in. Jacob and Caroline Cavill had made an impressive entrance, the silver-haired millionaire handsome in his tuxedo as his platinum blonde wife strolled down the stairs dripping in diamonds and an amount of sequins that nudged the borders of good taste.

 

Sherlock deduced the husband without finding any useful information. Jacob had inherited millions and invested them well, that much was obvious from the details of his clothing. He used a hair product to even out the silver in his hair and used no less than three facial products on a daily basis. He was having an affair with his assistant (very faint lipstick marks on his trousers) but had no intentions of leaving his wife since they had two children together (details visible on the wife's body) and their finances were also linked. He was right-handed, drank too much and smoked cigars (stains on fingers and thin cuts from sloppy drunken cigar cutting), and had injured his left knee playing tennis. Ruthless, moderate intelligence, and selfish. Your average upper-class tosser at the opera.

 

Mrs. Cavill, on the other hand, was quite interesting. Sherlock observed her clothing, shoes, handbag, and grooming and came to the conclusion that she was utterly insane.

 

Molly watched Sherlock's laser-precise eyes burn through the crowd and the Cavills in particular. She'd never seen him in a crowd of people this large. She wondered if it overloaded his acute senses. He seemed to be handling it rather well, tuning out those who offered no challenge or usefulness. His expressive face occasionally registered distaste or mirth, and the lines of his face shifted fascinatingly. Molly loved to watch him work. He moved more with his face than most people did with their entire bodies.

 

He kept his hand firmly on the small of her back while he gazed around. He'd given up the pretense of drinking champagne and set his glass on a passing tray.

 

"Sherlock, I've got to go to the loo, alright?" He nodded without speaking. Molly located the bathrooms and pondered how she would managed her voluminous gown in the narrow stall. She noticed Dora dancing with Mycroft and talking rather seriously as they moved with one another. Molly smiled, wishing she were a fly on the wall for that interaction. What an intriguing pair of people, she thought.

 

On returning from a successful and tidy trip to the ladies that had only required minor acrobatics on her part, Molly found that Sherlock had finally engaged the elusive Caroline and Jacob Cavill in conversation.

 

Sherlock was enthusiastically discussing Dora's turn in _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , which as far as she knew, he hadn't seen.

 

"Stunning, bloody _stunning_ ," he raved, sounding mildly inebriated. Molly giggled. She loved his shamming. "I dunno why people don't go to the opera more, 'cause it's so damn beautiful. I says, I say to my girl here- _oi! Molly!-_ I said, I don' even like this crap, but I found m'self cryin' at the end like a baby. Il-il-il dol-chee su-ohhh-no. Schweet. Sweet. Sound. _Lovely_ work y'do here, keeping it. On. And the like."

 

The Cavills nodded, amused. Caroline Cavill's vivid green eyes appreciated Sherlock's lean form in his tuxedo.

 

She stopped a waiter and passed fresh glasses of champagne around. Sherlock gulped his down while Molly merely held hers politely and wrapped an arm his waist. He draped his arm over her shoulder and nuzzled her ear.

 

"Well, thank you for coming out to support the company," Jacob said as he offered Sherlock his hand and walked away quickly.

 

"My husband is a busy man," Caroline said in way of apology. She lifted her glass to the couple and grinned, green eyes glittering. "Cheers!"

 

"Cheeeers," Sherlock slurred and swallowed the rest on his glass.

 

Molly squeezed his waist and nudged him with her hip, hinting at a getaway. She giggled again to disguise the gesture as flirtatious touching.

 

Sherlock looked down at her, seeming to have forgotten about Caroline.

 

"Molly…Mollymolly…you look good enough to eat." And with that, he kissed her on the mouth there on the periphery of the ball room floor. Caroline laughed and drifted off into the throngs of people.

 

" _Oh,"_ Molly gasped. _Will there ever be a time when he kisses me that I don't want to strip him where he stands, public or not?_ she wondered. He deepened the kiss, disregarding the people around them who were beginning to stare.

 

"Um, oh, Sherlock? Maybe we should um wait. We're- here," Molly said against his lips.

 

"You're right. Bad place. We need- a better place." He grabbed her arm and walked her out of the ball room. An open marble staircase led up to the second and third stories of the opera house, roped off for tonight. Sherlock dismissed heading up as the landings were open and exposed. Spotting an unmarked door off to the side of the main foyer, Sherlock pulled Molly toward it. She founded herself being led down a darkened hallway full of what appeared to be offices for the Royal Opera Company. He knelt on the floor of the deserted hall, and yanked Molly down with him.

 

"Much better. Right," Sherlock said brightly. "Now then, let's have a look here. Like your corset. Have to get you a proper one with hard boning in it soon. I don't know if I want to make this one tighter or cut the laces open so I can mmm-" he said, burying his face against the nape of Molly's neck, one hand grazing over the tops of her breasts, the other burying itself under her skirts and rubbing her inner thigh.

 

"Sherlock, are you alright? We're working, what are you- Sherlock?" Molly began to panic. This wasn't right, _he_ wasn't right. As good as his kisses felt, and as tempting as it was to let those long fingers of his keeping searching under her skirt, he wasn't himself.

 

"Sherlock Holmes, you LOOK at me!" Molly commanded him. He looked up in surprise.

 

His pupils were huge, blown so wide that only a small ring of blue-green was visible around the edges. His curly hair flopped down over his forehead where sweat was forming. Molly couldn't tell whether he was breathing heavily from kissing her, but his sweat was cool to the touch.

 

"Sherlock, stay with me. I think you've been drugged. You were fine until ten minutes ago, and then, and then you drank the champagne. Oh shit. How did they do that in the ball room?" Molly fumed and held Sherlock's hands, as he tried to pull away and put his hands back under her dress.

 

"Everyone here basically works for them. You can pay waiters to spike drinks. It's not that hard, Molly, people will do anything for money. Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said as he tried to lean forward to kiss her.

 

"Well I'm not the one who drank drugged champagne from suspects, so who's the idiot now, Sherlock Holmes, hmm?" Molly replied hotly.

 

"Good point," he responded, as he dropped his head into his hands and started groaning. "Urrrggh. I'm spinning. Molly. Get John."

 

"I think that's a good idea. Sweetie, stay here. I'll get help." Molly looked around. She couldn't carry him out of here without assistance. He should be safe here in the dark, as long as he stayed put. She kissed him on the forehead, and he grabbed her arm.

 

He tipped her chin back down and kissed her lightly on the lips, pressing harder until she could taste the sweet champagne on his tongue.

 

"I never did tell you, Molly, you look bloody beautiful," he managed to croak out before falling back against the wall and breathing heavily.

 

Molly smiled and stood up.

 

"I'll be right back, I promise."

 

She ran back to the door that led to the foyer. Opening it, she glanced around, hoping she would spot John immediately. He wasn't in the area though and so she had started to move forward to the ball room when a speeding object flew to the ground in her peripheral vision.

 

She had the fast notion that a light or a piece of fabric bunting had fallen from the wall, but that idea disappeared with the cracking, squishing thud on the marble floor. Blood burst from the body as it landed, sending people screaming into the ball room to get away from the horror.

 

Molly froze for a minute and then her pathologist side kicked in. She walked closer to the body, withdrawing her phone from her clutch. She dialed the police as she knelt to peer at the face, which was partly intact, though drenched with blood.

 

She spoke calmly into the mobile to the dispatcher. John, Dora and Mycroft entered the foyer to find out what caused the shouting and panic. As they neared the body, they heard her speaking.

 

"Send police and an ambulance to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. A man's fallen. Yes, he's dead. His name is Jacob Cavill."

_****_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes back control.

"Go get the rock monster, she has shaky hands, smacking lips, all wrong."

 

"Right. Let's get him in the car, eh?" John and Molly heaved the drugged Sherlock into the limousine that had pulled up in front of the opera house.

 

He landed with an undignified plop on the long seat across from his brother and Dora. The singer raised a sculpted brow at the consulting detective, who was still rambling about shiny people with laddered stockings.

 

Molly climbed in next to Sherlock, who dropped his head on her shoulder, and John took the seat opposite them, next to Mycroft. She looked ruefully down at her feet now clad in the portable flats she'd had tucked in her bag. Her heels had been tossed in the bin, soaked at the toes with Jacob Cavill's blood.

 

"Not quite what you hoped, I imagine, but it was the most exciting event I've been to at the opera in years. Honestly I'd have been shocked if there weren't dead bodies materializing with you three in the building." Mycroft's wry humor drew a tired smile from John and the women, and a rude noise from his drugged brother.

 

"My men are searching for Caroline Cavill. They lost sight of her and her _late_ husband five minutes before the incident. It would be an incredible coincidence if she didn't have something to do with his death. There's nothing in the file on her to indicate a propensity for violence or a financial motive for murder, but perhaps she's a refreshing surprise: someone who isn't entirely predictable. "

 

"….azy…" The sound came from Sherlock's mouth and was nearly smothered against Molly's neck. She shifted and tilted Sherlock's head outward.

 

"What did you say?"

 

"I said," Sherlock enunciated with effort, "she's crazy. Kerrrr. Carrr. Car-line. Is crazy."

 

"And how did you deduce that?" Mycroft questioned him, seemingly unconcerned with his brother's altered state.

 

"Shiny rocks all over. Diamonds. Covered in 'em." He waggled his fingers in the air. "All shaking. Shaking hands. Lips, her _face_. Could see it in her hands, her rings, the stressss on her clothes, smeared lipstick, ripped hose. Tardis- tardive-tardive-diss-diss…" he trailed off.

 

John and Mycroft's eyes brightened with understanding.

 

"Tardive dyskinesia. A condition caused by long-term use of psychotropic medications," Mycroft explained to Dora.

 

Molly nodded, amazed that Sherlock had picked up on the condition when she hadn't noticed anything wrong with Caroline. That was the problem with only dealing with dead patients; you didn't get to observe pathological behaviors very often.

 

"There's nothing in the report here about mental illness but the wealthy often don't bother with prescriptions. There is some paranoia about privacy, understandably. But if she's medicated- ah, yes of course. She's gone off them recently."

 

Sherlock nodded vehemently and then groaned. He flopped a hand into Molly's lap, using her thigh as an anchor to steady himself.

 

"Withdrawal. Saw it in the bags under her eyes. Jitters. Her watch…set to the wrong time. Jewelry, so strange. _Dripping_ with diamonds, too much. Not self-aware. You'd see it too if you weren't. Too busy. _Dancing,_ " he bit out with disgust. "Didn't know what it meant. If it mattered. Lots of mentally ill around. Not all killing shtttupid husbands. He was an idiot anyway."

 

He buried his head back into the nape of Molly's neck, and closed his eyes, exhausted from the explanations. She stroked his head and he seemed content, wrapping his arm around her body tightly.

 

"I'll test his blood to be certain," Molly said, "But I think he's been given a dose of a fast-acting benzodiazepine drug. His breathing is regular, and he's conscious so I think he'll be fine. I'll go back to Baker Street with him and John. I can spend the night helping look after Sherlock to make sure he's in the clear."

 

"You don't have to do that, Mol-"

 

"Yes, I do, John. He's as much my responsibility as he is yours." Molly's face was obstinate. The night had been bizarre and bloody but she felt strong and certain. She was going to take care of her boyfriend, and John and Sherlock himself weren't going to stand in the way of that. John nodded without further comment.

 

After an awkward minute passed and the limo drew closer to Baker Street, Mycroft said, "Cavill's body will be delivered to St. Bart's. Arrangements have been made."

 

"When? In the last ten minutes?" Dora asked, twisting her diamond necklace around her fingers. She'd been unusually quiet. Opera houses were a safe place for her; the murder had shaken her badly, though she barely knew Jacob Cavill. The gift of jewelry he'd given her was on behalf of the entire board of directors, not a personal gesture.

 

"It doesn't matter when. It's been taken care of. Trust that."

 

"God you're creepy sometimes," Dora said with the beginnings of a smile.

 

"You have _no_ idea." Mycroft slanted his mouth and looked at the singer out of the corner of his eye.

 

She finally laughed. "I actually do. I have several ideas. Shit, I'm exhausted. When this is all over, I'm going to rent a house up in Blackpool and spend a month lying around eating chips and getting a tan." She looked over at Mycroft. "If you don't piss me off in the next few days, I might let you come with me and have some chips too. Fatten you back up. I _loathe_ diets. Your belly's gone, it's all wrong. I can't abide men who look like twigs." She patted his stomach affectionately, and then curled her hand into his.

 

Mycroft's cheeks held the faintest hint of pink, and he looked off-kilter for a moment. The unflappable government man was a different person with Dora, Molly observed. Whatever existed between Sherlock's brother and the soprano was complicated, but it was enduring.

 

It made Molly dare to hope that she could find that kind of comfortable emotional bond someday with her own Holmes.

 

"Ooof. She likes fat. No wonder." Sherlock's comment was muffled by his face still being pressed into Molly.

 

Mycroft looked like he was contemplating punching his baby brother for a minute. He regained his standard bland expression, but looked relieved when the limo finally arrived at 221 Baker Street.

 

"We'll be in touch tomorrow. Dr. Hooper, Dr. Watson." Mycroft nodded in farewell as they exited the vehicle with a stumbling Sherlock in tow.

 

"I think it's time we get those troublesome jewels off you, Dora," Mycroft said as he turned his attention away from them.

 

"Just the jewelry? How unexciting of you," they heard Dora say drily as the car door closed.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

"Don't worry too much," John assured Molly as they guided Sherlock to his bed. "Just…take care of him. I know he's in good hands. And don't hesitate to come get me if you need a hand with anything, if he gets riled up or is hallucinating. I really don't mind."

 

"Thank you, John. I've got it." Molly arranged the pillows under Sherlock's head. His narrow bed looked incredibly inviting after the long day and night they'd had.

 

"I know you do, Molly. I used to worry about…well, it doesn't matter anymore. You've been really good for him. He doesn't handle change very well, but um- anyway we can talk about it when this case wraps up. Christ, I need to sleep."

 

He left and Molly heard the door to his bedroom close upstairs. Sherlock was already snoring.

 

Finally able to breathe and collect herself, she stripped out of her clothing and slid under the sheets next to him. She played with his curls absently while he slept and she reviewed the whirlwind day in her mind. The wild events raced through her brain and Molly didn't think she'd be able to sleep at all with leftover adrenaline coursing through her.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Molly Hooper woke up to the startling sight of Sherlock's bright eyes six inches above hers, and the sensation of her arms being unbent and stretched above her head. She stirred as he lifted his head up and slipped her wrists securely into the comfortable leather cuffs that permanently stayed attached to his bed these days.

 

Sherlock's eyes were crystal clear, showing no trace of lingering confusion from the drugs. He'd slept peacefully the moment he was laid on his bed, and Molly had herself drifted off an hour after that, confident that he was breathing normally.

 

"Morning," she said softly, wondering what he was up to so early. She didn't want to be a killjoy, but there was a corpse waiting for her at St. Bart's. Sherlock glanced back down at her but didn't speak. His eyes bore into hers with an unreadable stillness. Something was out of sorts with Sherlock, but she couldn't put her finger on it. There were faint shadows under his eyes, now that she looked closer. The evening had taken a toll on his boundless energy. She'd have to make certain he ate something this morning.

 

Molly tentatively smiled, and he answered her with a devilish grin that made his cheekbones even more prominent. _So he's in that kind of mood_ , she thought.

 

"Are you alright, love?"

 

His cheerful expression dropped. "Why do you call me that?"

 

"Because I love you."

 

His brows furrowed, and Molly rushed in to keep him from protesting. Her arms relaxed and accepting of the restraints, she continued.

 

"I know you don't…you can't…it doesn't matter. It's just a word for a collection of things. Keeps it tidy, expressing myself. Don't worry about it, alright?"

 

He looked unconvinced. His eyes flickered over to the clock. "You have to go to the morgue this morning; Cavill's body needs to be examined. It would help to know if he was dead before he fell. He didn't scream, he just fell. Caroline Cavill hasn't been found yet or we'd have a message from Mycroft. We have an hour before we're leaving."

 

"You remember all that? You were pretty out of it last night." Molly adjusted her naked legs to a more comfortable position. She barely remembered taking off her clothes before climbing in next to Sherlock. Her beautiful gown was pooled on the floor, a soiled Cinderella story.

 

"I heard it all, I remember it. I couldn't process it so I stored it away." He ruffled his hair in frustration, and then brought his hand back down to Molly's legs, stilling her shifting body. He ran his hands up and down her thighs slowly, tickling the sensitive skin with his clever fingers. She tried to keep her legs still, but after a minute of continuous stroking she found her legs opening, silently asking for more.

 

He ignored her unspoken begging and drew his long fingers over the tops of her thighs and up to her belly. His pale hands skimmed over her navel.

 

"Leave your legs open. I'm not going to secure them. You're going to keep them exactly where they are or I'll go read the paper in the kitchen and leave you here until I'm finished."

 

Molly paled, but felt her belly muscles clench in anticipation at the same time. A new challenge then. She had to obey. He was always generous when she performed well. He was strict when she failed. She wasn't sure which she enjoyed more.

 

"I need to think. Be quiet. I can hear you thinking. Stop it," he hissed. He hopped off the bed, grabbed a black piece of fabric off his chest of drawers and returned to Molly with the blindfold.

 

He slipped it over her head, dropping her into darkness and total vulnerability. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, finding the still subspace inside of her. Everything was clear and relaxed there. His hands then moved over her belly and sides, avoiding her breasts with the nipples already hardening.

 

She felt his weight on the bed shift, and then his lips were on hers, his tongue aggressive in opening her mouth. Her tongue moved against his, as she felt his hands sink into her hair. He tugged hard at the strands, drawing a moan from Molly. Only intense concentration kept her from opening her legs and begging him to fuck her. He pulled his mouth away from hers suddenly, and spoke while he gripped handfuls of her silky hair.

 

"I watched you sleep for thirty minutes. People stare at their lovers in films, watching them sleep. At least they do in the awful romances that John and Mary subject me to. I wonder if that's when their _feelings_ make sense. If that's why they do it. It didn't help. I know every centimeter of your body already. Stupid experiment; clearly films are not based on empirical study."

 

She frowned, confused for a moment but beginning to sense where Sherlock was going with his thoughts. She opened her mouth, but then closed it. Silence was assumed and required until permission to speak was given, when they played together.

 

"Well?" he asked with exasperation. "Explain." He released her hair, and she felt him move closer to her, his breath brushing over her chest and his hands skimming her sides again.

 

"Oh…um, Sherlock…whatever feelings…you can talk to me. I know I'm not a genius, but I think I'm not bad when it comes to emotions and people." She almost wiggled as he brushed over a ticklish spot on her right hip.

 

"How am I supposed to discuss _you_ with _you_?" Sherlock sounded baffled and annoyed.

 

"People in relationships do it all the time. What…I'm sorry…why are you thinking about this- me- today and not the case? Usually it's all very…separate." Molly spoke carefully and focused on staying still, even though Sherlock's fingers were moving over the thatch of curls between her legs now.

 

"I _was_ thinking about the case, trying to deduce Caroline Cavill's motives, but the information I gained from meeting her conflicts with the possibility of her murdering her husband. I saw that she _loved_ him; I _saw_ that she excused his infidelities because he would never leave her. She forgave him anything even though he was a complete prick. It was all there. So what the _hell_ happened? Why did she turn on him? Don't answer, I'm thinking." He slid his fingers through the cluster of dark curls, dipping lower.

 

"You were thinking about the wife who probably killed him…and you thought of me?" Molly squeaked out.

 

He answered with a light slap on her wet folds that almost startled Molly into closing her legs. She fought against the urge to hide herself away, and relaxed her belly and thigh muscles.

 

"I said not to answer," he explained testily. "Caroline was clearly in love with her husband, Mycroft's file on her backs that up. Saying she's crazy isn't good enough of a reason for murder. I need to know _why_. OH."

 

She tilted her head silently. She knew that _oh_. Had he solved the case already? _My genius,_ she thought with a smile, _his mind is a miracle_.

 

"No, don't be ridiculous," he said reading her reaction. "I'll need at least ten minutes to solve the entire case. But I know why they drugged me- it wasn't they, it was _her_. With her psych problems, she was a walking pharmacy. She drugged her husband and me both," Sherlock explained as she felt his fingertips slide against her clitoris with ruthless precision.

 

"Your glass too, all four glasses of champagne were drugged, but you weren't drinking it, I noticed. And neither was she. That's why he didn't scream." He moved his fingers faster against her, the tension building in her abdomen as she struggled to keep her legs still. It was torturous, the demanded focus, and it kept her from being able to really enjoy his skillful touch.

 

 _Oh you brilliant bastard_ , Molly thought as her breathing grew heavier with effort and desperation.

 

"He was drugged, and I'll wager that Jacob Cavill didn't have my tolerance for drugs. It wouldn't have taken much for her to shove him over the railing. God, it's so obvious!"

 

He laughed, and she could hear the triumph in his voice. She wanted to be thrilled for her man but at the moment, she was so aroused and frustrated she wanted to kick him and throw him to the floor and ride his cock for all it was worth, submission _be damned._

_  
_

Molly's abdominal muscles quivered. They were stronger since she'd started taking belly dancing lessons a few months before, but even they were starting to shake from the self-control she was exerting. Sherlock slowed his stroking but kept a soft regular pressure on her clit now. It was enough to keep her wet and wanting, but not enough to come. _Damn him._

_  
_

"She followed Jacob after he walked away, she must have guided him- wherever, those old opera houses have back stairways and side hallways galore- get me a copy of the Royal Opera layout when we're done here, Molly." He paused, and his voice was cooler when he spoke again.

 

"So drugging me was just a side-effect. It wasn't even my self-control she wanted to destroy, it was _his_. It was disgusting, being that way again. Foolish, stupid, trying to fuck you in the middle of the ball when we were- and the craving." She heard the anger in his voice, and she felt it in his palm as he rubbed his hand hard now on her aching clit.

 

"It never really goes away, you know. Wanting drugs. Your mouth waters and you get used to it, the craving. It fades some, and you hope you can delete that feeling entirely. You can't, but you can control it. You can control anything if you focus, if you try. But she took away my control. And you had to save me. You were the strong one last night, not me."

 

She heard bitterness creep into his velvety voice. _I don't mind saving you,_ Molly thought. _We can save each other. It wasn't your fault._ _It was just one night._ Her heart ached for him as much as her sex did.

She understood now why he'd woken her with cuffs.

 

She felt his weight shift again, and his warm hand moved away from her folds. Painfully bright light filled her eyes as he yanked the blindfold off Molly's head.

 

His eyes, locking onto hers, were blue-green, with none of the icy grey she usually saw during his coldly dominant moments. His dark curls shone with red highlights from the sun peeking through the window. His face brimmed with the electric energy she expected when he'd just finished a case.

 

 _Why? He hasn't solved the mystery yet,_ she wondered.

 

Sherlock took her mouth, their tongues twisting together as one hand slipped down to lift her right leg up. Her muscles groaned after being held stiff for so long. He bent the other leg up, wrapped them both around his waist, and sank his hard cock into Molly.

 

He moved in her steadily, with unexpected sweetness. He kissed her breathless as he pumped his hips against her pelvis, rocking into her, gradually more intense.

 

She pled with her eyes for more, more pressure, more touch, and he reached down between them to let her roll her clit against his hand, as he moved in and out of her. After the slow teasing buildup he'd given her, she came quickly, arching and nearly throwing him off her with the bucking of her hips.

 

He lifted her legs tighter around his waist and worked her body hard, his face fierce now as he reached for his own orgasm. She groaned, relishing the feel of him sliding over her tender inner muscle that was still shaking from her climax.

 

Her brown eyes glowed up at him, blazing with emotion, and she whispered something he almost missed in his final frenzy.

 

"Say it," he bit out, teeth gritted as he rode her. "Say it again."

 

" _I love you,"_ she said, her cheeks red, her eyes shining, her voice clear and unafraid. "I love you."

 

He threw his head into the nape of her neck, and came with an agonized groan.

 

Sherlock's weight dropped onto her, and he gasped against her neck, "I believe you." He laughed in a strange confused way.

 

"I believe you."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

50 minutes from when he'd woken her, Sherlock dragged Molly into the shower with him. It was the most efficient shower she'd ever had, scrubbed head to toe in two minutes flat. He wanted to try shaving Molly's legs to see if he could do it well, but she drew the line at shaving herself with one of John's razors, since Sherlock was out of fresh ones.

 

"We can look at Mr. Cavill's body, but honestly, I don't think we'll see much that you haven't already deduced. He's…he's rather in pieces. Bruises inflicted by the murderer might be obscured by the much larger bruises and damage from, well, being splattered all over the floor. The tox screens will be helpful, but they take time," Molly said as she dressed quickly in clothes Sherlock had given her to wear. She didn't want to examine them too closely, since she had to wear _something_ , but the thin jumper looked suspiciously like one of John's.

 

"Have to check out everything, there's still the matter of motive. Obviously it has something to do with Dora's diamonds being real and the Josephine gem, and… _oh_." His eyes lit up. "OH."

 

Sherlock laughed a slow, deep laugh that made her belly tighten.

 

"She didn't know. Of course. They were _hers._ And then she saw them at the ball _._ Oh Jacob, you bad man."

 

Molly wrinkled her forehead. "Sorry, I don't follow. Josephine? And that's not me being stupid. You're a genius, remember? Please explain, Sherlock." She bit her lip, wondering if she was being too pushy.

 

He sighed impatiently and threw on a black jacket. "In the taxi. If I added up all the time I waste explaining things to people, bloody hell…" he mumbled as he hurried down the stairs with Molly running after him. _Stupid gorgeous long legs,_ she grumbled.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Dora alone.

As the limousine pulled away from 221 Baker Street, Dora slid the sleek brunette bob wig off her head and ran a hand through her true, cropped hair. She sighed with relief and turned up the air conditioner in the back of the vehicle. She sat back and let the cool wind from the vent blow over her face and scalp for a few minutes.

Mycroft watched her unwind. Her life on the road had taught her how to relax anywhere she needed to, through focus and determination. A marvel of survival, he thought. He wished his agents had half her cunning and guts.

"Your analytical gifts and adaptability were wasted in entertainment, Dorothy," he observed.

"My musicality and my need to be free would've been crushed in government service, Mycroft," she countered.

It was an old argument, one replayed more in habit than in real hope of changing anyone's mind.

She turned around on the seat, presenting her back to him. She tipped her head downward, offering the back of her neck to him.

He placed his hands on Dora's shoulders, stilling her, and moved his hands to her neck, taking the clasp of her string of diamonds in his fingers.

"Why didn't you tell me about Josephine, Dorothy? That would've made the resolution much faster," he admonished her as the necklace opened and slid forward into her cleavage, thanks to the weight of the large stone at its center.

"It wasn't deliberate, I forgot about the thief calling me Josephine. Wait, I didn't tell you- oh, but it was at the house you provided. Always watching. Listening devices in the potted plants, cameras in the loo, that sort of thing?" As she turned back to face him, she dipped into her dress to retrieve the priceless diamonds.

Mycroft pinched his lips together and his eyes unfailingly followed her fingers as they slid past the sweetheart neckline of her dress bodice.

"Did you watch me shower while you were creeping about?" she teased.

He had the audacity to look offended.

"I would never-"

"Then I've lost my touch." She grinned as she pulled the necklace out and dropped it onto his lap. "I am getting older after all. Things not as perky, a few more wrinkles." Dora laughed, and waved off Mycroft before he could disagree with her. "Joking of course. Until my diagnosis, I felt the best I ever had in my life. So much insecurity and anger when I was younger, confusion and longing. Dramatic idiocy. It all seems so simple now. Cancer or not, I wouldn't trade places with that younger me for all the diamonds in London."

With grace learned from years of practice, Mycroft scooped up the jewels with one hand, dropping them into a pocket while picking up Dora's hand with his other and kissing her palm tenderly.

"The younger you was wonderful, but mostly on potential. You're the realization of that," he said without a trace of irony or teasing, looking her straight in the eye.

"That's…well, damn." Her eyes sparkled for a few seconds with unshed tears, but they were gone lightning-fast. No matter how uncertain the future was, tears would not do. If she broke in front of him, she wouldn't be able to keep from letting him comfort her. The delicate balance of affectionate but casual contact that they'd maintained over the years had been based on the insistence that they didn't need each other. It might be fiction, but it was a convincing one. A useful one.

And now it was falling apart.

They were aging. They were tired. All the games and the careful facades seemed pointless.

She'd pushed him away several times over the years in futile attempts to form new, uncomplicated relationships.

She'd pushed him away when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer, certain that letting him hold her up during that time would weaken her resolve.

She didn't want to run or fight anymore. She didn't want to live on the road, working in unfriendly cities that smelled strange. She wanted to come home.

Mycroft was home.

Dora MacKenzie removed her earrings that matched the necklace, looked down, and leaned in to slip them into his pocket.

She let her hand linger against his clothing, the rich fabric under her fingertips. Enjoying the closeness, the scent of him so familiar and grounding. How strange it was that though he'd risen up through the world, growing harder, stronger, and more polished, he should have the same scent as he did when he used to crawl into her dormitory bed after a long night of arguing foreign policy with his friends.

The awareness was thick between them as Mycroft waited for her to commit to a maneuver.

She lifted her face up, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and her full lower lip caught between teeth as she considered her next move.

Mycroft's eyes burned into hers, and his controlled stillness broke as he pulled her into his arms.

"Sod this," he muttered against her parted lips. "We're not waiting anymore, Dorothy."

She smiled, and tears threatened to spill again. "Alright. There's no excuse anymore, is there. I...this was meant to be my last run of a full opera."

He brushed his lips lightly over hers. "I know. When you started smoking again after having been quit for fifteen years, it was obvious you were no longer concerned with preserving your instrument. Your abdominal muscles weren't supporting your diaphragm with the same power in Lucia as you displayed in roles before your illness, and the conductor's tempo was a hair too slow. He was giving you small leeway. And if you weren't physically able to perform operas anymore to the best of your ability, I knew you'd retire." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You still sing like an angel."

"I didn't tell anyone I was quitting. Didn't want a fuss. Should've known you'd know anyway." Tears finally spilled from her dark brown eyes, and Dora gave an embarrassed laugh. "The British government found time to see my latest opera?" One side of her mouth curled up.

"I saw all of your operas."

Dora's mouth opened as she realized the span of his devotion. For a moment, there was no sound but the hum of the limousine's engine.

"Well. How was I?"

"Without parallel." 

And with that, he closed the distance between them, his mouths and hers melding together. Their lips, tongues, hands, selves, twisting together to form a rhythm that was both familiar and entirely new.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Despair of Josephine

" _Sorry her lot who loves too well,_

_Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,_

_Sad are the sighs that own the spell_

_Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly..."_

_  
_

Dora sang the plaintive song lightly, accompanying herself on a beautiful, antique walnut-cased upright piano in Mycroft's living room. The man himself was ensconced in the soundproofed study, taking phone calls. It was just as well; her rusty playing wasn't very pleasant.

 

"Why on earth are you singing that song?"

 

He was done with his business, apparently. Mycroft stood behind her, fixing the cuffs on his white shirt and adjusting his tie.

 

"I performed _H.M.S. Pinafore_ when I was studying at the conservatory. The heroine's name is Josephine. I was just wondering whether that could be the connection." Dora lifted her hands from the keyboard and crossed her arms, clad in an ankle-length purple silk dressing gown.

 

"An interesting thought," he acknowledged with a smile. "I eliminated that avenue two days ago however. It's the diamonds. The one diamond in particular, the 45-carat stone in the center of the necklace. The others in the set are real as well, but much less notable and valuable." He sat down on the bench next to Dora, his back to the ivory keys.

 

"This is why I started the campaign about diamonds. People killing each other over bloody jewelry. It's all so _stupid_ , My." She paused, and kissed him on the cheek. "Good morning, by the way."

 

"I apologize for not being there when you awoke. There were things to be handled. Caroline Cavill is still missing, unfortunately. She has a great deal of money and she has friends. One unpredictable mentally ill woman is going to be more difficult to locate than your average criminal."

 

"Are we sure it's her behind this?"

 

"The deductions lead to her. And her husband. They were not acting entirely in sync, as it turns out."

 

"Really?" She quirked an eyebrow up. "Do tell."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

"The Blue Despair of Josephine, lost since WWII. Jacob Cavill wanted to ruin Dora MacKenzie's reputation so he used a cursed diamond so notorious, no one would believe it was a new synthetic diamond when photos of her wearing it surfaced. The story is too exciting, too _romantic_ ," Sherlock explained with disgust. "No one would _want_ to believe anything else."

 

Molly watched London race by as the cabbie sped them through the streets on the way to St. Bart's. She slipped her hand into Sherlock's fingers.

 

"So that's why he tried to get it back, because of its value. Were the other board members in on it then?"

 

"Doubtful. We only have Dora's statement that it was a gift from all of the board, because that is what Cavill _told_ her and she believed him."

 

"When you said she didn't know, what did you mean?" Molly's brow wrinkled as she tried to pull the mystery together in her mind. It always seemed so simple when Sherlock explained it, but gathering the threads of the tale mid-action was quite a bit harder.

 

"Caroline Cavill didn't know he'd given Dora true diamonds. _Her_ diamond. Why else would she kill him? She loved him. Pffft. _Love."_

_  
_

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

"We're still making inquiries, but it appears that several years ago Jacob Cavill acquired a rare gem under mysterious circumstances and presented it to his wife. Which gem it was, we didn't know at the time. Black market trade is not unusual for items of historical value. Josephine never came up."

 

Mycroft took Dora's hand and led her to the closet in a spare bedroom. He opened it revealing a selection of women's clothing that were, of course, all in her size. Dora rolled her eyes heavenward and shook her head with a smile. It would take some getting used to, being around him all the time again.

 

"Caroline had a passion for diamonds. Owning such a famous piece would've been incredibly important to her. And then her dear husband took it, gave it to some opera singer, and didn't bother to let his wife in on the plan. He probably assumed he could get it back before she would realize what had happened," he explained as Dora flipped through the rack of clothing.

 

"Thieves are easy to come by, but he used amateurs. The wealthy are so cheap." He wrinkled his nose. "If he had hired a true professional, he'd have the necklace back, and you'd have no idea where your new necklace had gone to. And then the firestorm in the press would've started."

 

Dora dropped her dressing gown to the floor unselfconsciously, and slipped a sleeveless black jersey dress over her head. The smooth fabric hugged her slim figure, the hem resting just above her knees. She admired the outfit in the full length mirror, mentally reviewing her shape. _Hmm, still need to regain some weight. My bum is practically nonexistent. That won't do._

_  
_

"It'll come back in time," said Mycroft, reading her eyes in the mirror. "Fish and chips in Blackpool should do wonders for you. You look beautiful regardless of your measurements." He circled her waist with his arms, and kissed the back of her neck.

 

"You haven't explained about Josephine yet," Dora commented, overlapping his hands on her belly with her own.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

"Storied throughout the 18th and 19th century, the Blue Despair's been mostly forgotten since it vanished in the forties. Overshadowed by the Hope Diamond and the Cullinan. It was discovered in India in 1750, originally over 112 carats. They cut it down to 45 carats in the mid-19th century," Sherlock recited the data in an almost sing-song tone while looking out the car window.

 

"It was presented to King Louis XVI in 1782, and _acquired_ by Napoleon during the Revolution. He gifted the diamond to Empress Josephine in 1810 when he divorced her. They were chronically unfaithful, but their marriage and a mutual madness for each other kept them together. That lasted until it was accepted that she couldn't bear Napoleon a child. So he gave her a big, pretty _rock_ and she went away."

 

"That's actually quite sad," Molly observed quietly. "I mean maybe they were…not great…to each other, but they were in love. Being driven apart by him needing an heir…it's just sad that the requirements of their roles are what ruined them, not a lack of passion."

 

Sherlock smirked slightly at her romantic take on history. Molly always looked for the heart, in everything.

 

"Well…According to witnesses, the last word he ever said on his deathbed, despite being remarried, was her name. So I suppose there was some residual feeling left there."

 

"She was the love of his _life,_ and he divorced her. It's quite awful, really. No wonder they call the diamond Despair," Molly mused. She slid over on the backseat and snuggled against Sherlock's side.

 

He smiled, draped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her tight against his side.

 

"Not just for her. All the owners of the Blue Despair after Josephine were said to succumb to madness or death soon after taking possession of it. The jewel passed between lovers and thieves, and misery followed, legends of a curse grew."

 

"It is a rather romantic story," Molly said dreamily. She looked up at his face wistfully; Sherlock would probably never understand that kind of passion and attachment.

 

"Not so romantic for the dead owners," Sherlock said with impatience. "Anyway, Josephine lived four years after the divorce and died of pneumonia- not a suspicious death. She was fifty years old, a good age for that century."

 

"Still…I don't know, it makes me feel…melancholy, I guess."

 

"Well yes, Molly, that's why it's called _Despair_."

 

She swatted his arm playfully. He locked his fingers around her wrist and looked hard into her soft brown eyes. His icy blue-green stare stopped her cold and she lowered her arm and cast her eyes downward.

 

Sherlock turned his head to look back out the window. She didn't see the slow smile that crept onto his face, but Molly felt his fingers around her wrist loosen and turn to a feather-light stroke over her racing pulse.

 

Molly relaxed against his warm side happily until the taxi arrived at St. Bart's Hospital. Waking up with her dominant boyfriend, and a challenging autopsy awaiting her at work- the day couldn't start off in a better way.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

"Ridiculous story. Might make a decent film, but a terrible plan. Clearly Cavill was a first time criminal. I could do much better. You're lucky I'm not a crook," Dora said with a grin as she turned around and linked her hands behind Mycroft's neck.

 

"Yes," Mycroft agreed fondly. Of course Dorothy would understand most aspects of the case without needing explanation.

 

"Well, I'm starving. Too early to find fish and chips…" She smiled picturing Mycroft wearing his expensive three piece suit in a chips shop .

 

"-so how about brunch? I'm buying." She winked and kissed him lightly on the lips. "First part of my plan to fatten you up."

 

The British government cleared his throat and turned slightly pink.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Molly dropped her purse onto the small desk in the morgue, while Sherlock made himself at home as usual, poking through drawers of bodies.

 

"No browsing today, Sherlock, we've got to see to Jacob's body."

 

"Yes yes of course….but there's a woman here aged 35-40, never given birth, healthy except for an ingrown nail and the grievous head wound that killed her and I really could use some of her fing- What?" He looked up at Molly standing with hands on her hips and her sweet face trying to look stern.

 

"No good?"

 

"Not good today, no. Please. I can't be distracted with that. There will be fresh bodies to work with after this case is down, never fear," she giggled.

 

"Fine," he said as he flopped down onto a metal chair. He idly picked up the tools on the table in front of him.

 

"Sherlock, love?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"I…um," Molly stumbled. "I would appreciate it if you didn't take any of the equipment home. "Please," she squeaked.

 

"Of course not. My equipment is much better than the junk St. Bart's foists upon you lot," the detective said indignantly.

 

Molly pretended not to notice as he slipped something out of his jacket pocket and back into the plastic container of tools.

 

_Relationships are about really overlooking each other's quirks, aren't they,_ she thought. _Maybe I'll surprise him with a new set of tools though. His are looking a bit dull. Would it be too much to give a six month anniversary gift? Hmm._

_  
_

It was normal for Molly to spend a lot of time thinking about Sherlock in the morgue (an association it didn't even occur to her to worry about), but when the body was rolled out, bloodless and prepared in front of her, Dr. Hooper went to work. Everything else faded, and she was only dimly aware of Sherlock saying he was going to get a cup of coffee.

 

Jacob Cavill's cause of death might be ridiculously obvious, but she couldn't write "acute case of the floor splatters" on the paperwork.

 

When the door opened and she sensed someone encroaching on the space she was working in, Molly frowned behind her mask, raised her scalpel, and said, "Sherlock, you'll have to wait. I'm getting close to the heart and you'll put me off."

 

When he didn't respond, Molly looked up wondering if she'd spoken too abruptly. Sometimes she forgot herself when she was engrossed in work.

 

A foot away from Molly stood a disheveled Caroline Cavill, gazing down at the remains of her handsome husband, hosed down, cut open and splayed on the slab.

 

Caroline looked back at Molly, her lips shaking and tears flooding her bright unfocused eyes. She looked as though she hadn't slept, brushed her hair or changed her clothes since the ball the evening before. A dirt-encrusted diamond bracelet still clung to her wrist and she wore one earring, but she seemed to have lost most of the jewelry decorating her the night before.

 

Or traded it in order to procure the gun in her left hand, hanging by her side.

 

" _What have you done to him?"_

_  
_

She raised the weapon and aimed it shakily at Molly's chest.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Sherlock was walking down the hallway to the morgue, holding two cups of iffy cafeteria coffee when he heard a hair-raising scream coming from the doors up ahead. He had heard Molly's voice in high-pitched passion too many times to not recognize her voice.

 

He dropped the cups and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Despair is fictional of course- a mixture of several infamous "cursed" diamonds, including the Hope, the Hortensia, and the Regent Diamonds.
> 
> "Sorry Her Lot Who Loves Too Well" is indeed a real song from HMS Pinafore, by Gilbert & Sullivan. No copyright infringement intended.


	9. Chapter 9

Molly stepped back and threw her gloved hands in the air, mimicking every crime film she'd ever seen on the telly. _Is this what people are supposed to do in real life?_ she wondered inanely.

 

"I didn't do anything to him!" she heard herself squeak out. "Well, I did _this_ ," she said nodding her head toward the rolling tray laden with her autopsy tools, "but that's not- I mean he was already dead, it's just my job. I didn't…How did you get in here? What do you want?"

 

Tears flowed from Caroline's eyes, creating fresh tracks in her ruined makeup. Her mascara had long since traveled from her lashes to under her eyes and onto her cheeks. Her hands shook around the gun still point at Molly, whom she showed no signs of recognizing. The widow Cavill was the picture of tortured grief.

 

 _I know I should hate her_ , Molly thought as her arms trembled above her, _but she looks totally broken-hearted. Is it possible she didn't kill him? You can't kill someone when you love them that much, can you?_

_  
_

"I want my husband," Caroline said, voice quavering. "I need him. They said he was here. He's mine. Stop cutting him up. It's _wrong_."

 

"I-I'm sorry. Do you want me to close him up?" Molly offered. It was probably absurd, but it was all she could think to offer. "I can…sew him together. His- um, skin." Her arms lowered slightly, though she kept her palms facing Caroline and the scalpel loose and unthreatening in her right hand's grasp.

 

"You can't fix him. I'm not stupid," Caroline said sharply. She jabbed the gun toward Molly with renewed anger.

 

"I know I can't, he's…gone. But I didn't kill him. Please." Molly's mind raced. Would Sherlock come back soon or wander off as he did so often? She was caught between trying to run for the door, and waiting for someone to turn up and distract the broken down woman. And even if Sherlock came back, what could he do? _He doesn't have a gun._

_  
_

The pathologist realized she couldn't wait for someone else to save her from a possible murderer holding a weapon on her. Molly dug deep inside herself for the strong calm she usually only found when she either was engrossed in an autopsy, or in her mental subspace, letting Sherlock take control of her when they played together. She breathed and fought for her voice to come out even-toned.

 

"I can close him and make him look better. I'm very good at this. Please…allow me to help your husband." Molly forced herself to smile politely, as though Caroline Cavill were any other patient's widow who had stopped by to identify a body.

 

Caroline's hand holding the gun dropped to her side suddenly, and she nodded. More tears spilled out and she rambled as Molly cautiously stepped onto the other side of the rolling table to select needles and thread to close the incisions on Jacob.

 

"He was so handsome. His face, his beautiful face. And his voice…on our first date, he sang to me "All You Need Is Love" and well, he sings terribly but it was so sweet. I wanted to give him to everything. We had a church wedding because I wanted one, he didn't care about that. I remember the minister and the incense and the candles, and when the wedding march began, I thought I would be happy forever." Caroline sniffled and wiped tears away from her cheek with the back of her free hand, smearing makeup further across her cheek.

 

"Even when I found out about the other women over the years, it didn't matter because he always came back to me. He didn't love them. He made sure I stayed happy and I had the best dresses and doctors and homes and diamonds. And when I found a man had the Blue Despair, he bought it for _me._ I dreamed about it since I was a girl, and Jacob gave me the most precious jewel." Caroline smiled, her eyes glowing with remembered happiness for a moment.

 

And then her eyes snapped back to Molly and the present. The pathologist was preparing the long, wide needles for suturing and praying she would be able to create a neat baseball stitch on the body under this pressure.

 

"And then we went to the fundraiser ball at the opera, and I saw that he gave my precious gift to _someone else."_ Caroline's eyes burned with rage and she lifted the gun and pressed the gun against Molly's side, as the doctor began to sew Jacob's incisions closed.

 

"He took the Blue Despair from me, _from me_ , after I'd done nothing but love him and bear his children and stay by his side all these years. Why would he do that? _Did he not love me anymore?"_ she hissed.

 

As the gun banged against her ribs, Molly broke and panicked.

 

"I don't know!" she shrieked, shoving the other woman back with her left hand and bringing her right hand up away from the corpse.

 

Caroline's eyes widened in surprise as Molly's arm swung over and landed against her neck, the long, curved and lethally sharp needle easily sliding into the flesh there.

 

As Caroline Cavill stood stunned, the gun slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor harmlessly.

 

She raised a hand to her neck, feeling the needle sticking out with very little bleeding visible. The woman slid to the floor, gagging and trying to speak, but her eyes were unfocused.

 

Frozen with shock, Molly stood still, watching Caroline lose consciousness, though her chest continued to rise and fall rapidly.

 

Realizing what she had done, Molly opened up her mouth and screamed.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

Sherlock burst into the morgue, heart hammering in his chest, eyes narrowed and jaw in a determined clench. He found Molly kneeling over the supine form of Caroline Cavill.

 

Molly looked up. Her eyes were bright with held-back tears.

 

"We haven't got a bloody emergency department here to call. Run upstairs and flag some people down. Anyone. _Please."_

_  
_

Five seconds were enough to take in the women, the needle's wound, the tools, the gun on the floor, and Jacob's exposed, splayed corpse. An unspoken conversation passed between Sherlock and Molly. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded.

 

She was unhurt. _He could breathe._ He wasn't especially concerned with the Cavill woman's condition but Molly was, and that was what mattered.

 

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, texted Mike Stamford upstairs, and told him to get an emergency crew from another hospital over to the Barts morgue.

 

Then he put the mobile away, picked Molly off the floor, pinned her still-gloved arms to her sides, and kissed her hard, possessively, nonstop until Mike ran into the morgue two minutes later to help.

 

Luckily, the physician was too busy to bother commenting on Sherlock Holmes kissing Molly Hooper with an open corpse on the table and a seriously injured attempted murderer on the floor.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

 

Later that afternoon, Molly sat on the sofa in 221B Baker Street, sipping tea and listening as Sherlock, next to her, blithely recounted the morgue misadventure to Dr. Watson. John appeared to be disappointed to miss Caroline Cavill's meltdown, having not come home from Mary's place until midmorning.

 

"Usually we're the ones getting shot at. Guess you're one of the gang now," John said genially. "Nice jumper you've got on, Molly, by the way."

 

She looked down at the blue and black striped jumper, and giggled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and spoke as he picked up his tea cup.

 

"She didn't shoot at Molly. Caroline Cavill is as ineffective a criminal as her late husband. She should live, with some damage to her windpipe. And she hasn't confessed, but Lestrade texted me this morning. They found her fresh fingerprints all over the third floor landing and railing of the Opera House staircase, and several witnesses told the Yard that they saw Jacob exit the ball room with his wife a few minutes before he fell. Mycroft's men will undoubtedly provide anything they've missed. Evidence piling up, open and shut case. Boring. Told you it would be. Absolutely tedious." He sighed. "I'm going to charge Mycroft extra for that."

 

Molly tucked her legs underneath her on the sofa, and leaned into Sherlock's side for reassurance. It was warm today but she felt quite cold.

 

She was still shaken up from the morning. It had been possibly the strangest twenty-four hours of her life. John and Sherlock might relish the violence and chaos of their lives but Molly knew she belonged in her orderly morgue, where people were already dead and she didn't have to actually see them bleeding and weeping.

 

"She'll live, Molly," Sherlock said smoothly, setting down his tea cup, and draping an arm over her shoulders. "Don't give her a second thought."

 

"My brain doesn't work that way," Molly responded, her eyes thoughtful and melancholy. "She's a very ill woman. And I stabbed her with a giant needle. I hope she goes to hospital instead of prison."

 

"She killed her husband and she could have killed you if she knew how to properly use a gun," Sherlock said, pure ice in his voice. "And if she had shot you, she wouldn't have left the room alive."

 

Unsure of how to feel about that, Molly turned toward Sherlock and wrapped her arm around his middle. She laid her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed her softly there.

 

"I just can't forget the look on her face. She was absolutely heartbroken. She really loved him."

 

"She killed him. She couldn't have loved him that much. She loved the Blue Despair of Josephine more, it seems."

 

"Maybe," Molly said."But she came to Barts to see him instead of tracking down the diamonds."

 

She smiled over at John in his chair. "I'm sorry to rob you of a good adventure, doctor. I don't know how you keep up with Sherlock on cases, to be honest. Always something mad going on. It's very inconvenient when you've got a cat at home waiting to be fed. Poor Toby. My best friend's popped over to fill his bowl," she added more cheerfully.

 

"Mary says that all the time," John said as he leaned over to pour himself a cup of tea. "Well, not about Toby, but about keeping up. Life is never dull with Sherlock, but I'm glad I've got Mary now. She…she gives me balance and when I'm with her, I can actually think about the future and not just live in the moment. When I first came back from Afghanistan, all I could handle was right now, but…I think I'm ready to think about the future." He smiled again in his guileless fashion, his tired face looking less so when he spoke of his Mary Morstan.

 

As he took another sip of tea, John's mobile vibrated and he glanced at the incoming number. "Pardon me; I've got to take this." He answered the call as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom.

 

"It's Mary. Picked up immediately, thinks he needs privacy, though I can hear him anywhere in the apartment, unfortunately."

 

"They're really great together. I know she's not exciting like you or John-"

 

"Or you."

 

Molly blushed. "I'm not exciting, I'm…helpful. I'm only exciting when you've got me."

 

"Excitement acquired via insemination? Seems unlikely." Sherlock's eyes were a warm blue-green as he squeezed Molly's shoulders. "No, you're more than helpful. Though you are that too. If that woman had hurt you today…" He didn't finish the sentence but his eyes burned fiercely and Molly saw his dark dominant personality flaring. "I shouldn't have left you alone for even a minute when we knew she was out there still."

 

His ferocious gaze melted into a calmer stare as his attention was pulled elsewhere.

 

"He's informing Mary he didn't tell me yet."

 

The non sequitur threw Molly.

 

"What are you talking about?"

 

"John's on the mobile informing his unexciting girlfriend that he hasn't told me yet that he's moving out. He's been trying to work up to it for weeks, but can't bring himself to say it. He thinks I can't handle change. He was going to tell me when he came home today but now he'll use the Caroline incident as an excuse to put it off again."

 

Molly's eyebrows rose. This _was_ a dramatic day. "How do you know he's moving out if he hasn't said? I mean I know you know everything, but explain, please?"

 

"He's been moving his belongings out in small increments over the past month. It was so absurdly obvious, I can only assume it was his passive-aggressive method of telling me. A mug here, an ugly jumper there…things left and didn't return to the flat. He's been pushing me to go to Tesco on my own more often, and he spends five out of every seven days at _her_ flat. He and Mary have reached the critical point in their relationship where they must 'move forward' or break up and he has decided to move forward." Sherlock injected his most scornful tone into his explanation.

 

"Oh, good for him, that's lovely!" Molly exclaimed.

 

"No, it's _annoying_. It's inconvenient. I prefer being alone or it being just you and I in the flat most of the time, but when we're on a case, having John halfway across London is bloody infuriating. They'll need to move to a closer place. Her current one won't do. I won't have their relationship and predictable, inevitable marriage _mucking_ up our cases."

 

"Well sure, priorities and all." Sherlock missed the gentle sarcasm in Molly's sweet voice and bemused eyes. She giggled and reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and ran a hand through his loose dark curls.

 

"I have to say, I'm surprised you're taking it so well. I would think you'd…not want him to go."

 

"I lived on my own and with other flatmates for years before John came around. Does everyone think I am completely helpless without John Watson?" Sherlock sounded more baffled than upset.

 

"Well, no. He just seems to make everything easier for you. He gets the groceries, he keeps you from getting arrested, he shares his more human perspective with you on cases. It seems that way from the blog, anyway."

 

"Yes, and look who's _writing_ the damned blog. No wonder people think I'm lost without him." He paused for a minute, idly running his fingertips over Molly's upper arm as he thought.

 

"I never had a real friend before him."

 

"I sort of guessed that. You're not really Mister Social Life." Molly tried to focus on the conversation but as usual, she kept losing her train of thought when he petted her like a cat as he contemplated things. Distracting, but nice too; his touch pushed Caroline's ravaged face out of her mind.

 

"No, I'm not. We'll make it work somehow; Mary will have to get used to him coming out with me on cases regardless of time of day. If she tries to make him give it up altogether, she is not the woman for him."

 

She nodded in agreement, though she privately thought that Sherlock would have to get used to less John Watson in his life. The man was entitled to live his own life, after all. Molly's eyes closed as she relaxed further into Sherlock's touch as his slow stroke moved up and down her arm. She sighed in contentment, her lingering anxiety from the day beginning to melt away.

 

"And anyway, it would have been too crowded with all three of us living here."

 

Molly's eyes flew open and her body tensed in surprise.

 

"What? I- uh Sherlock? Are you asking me to move in with you?" she managed to say, as the heat rose in her cheeks.

 

"Asking? Hardly." He shrugged and his steady touch on her arm didn't falter. "Telling."

 

Molly's mouth dropped open and her brown eyes were wide. A host of emotions flashed through her and she was still struggling with a response when the doorbell rang: three crisp blasts of noise.

 

"Ah! That'll be Mycroft then. I expected his Royal Nosiness hours ago," Sherlock said as he popped up from the sofa and strolled to the door.


	10. Chapter 10

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" Mycroft's toothy smile suggested that he knew exactly what he was interrupting.

 

Molly squirmed on the couch, still processing the bombshell of Sherlock asking her- no, _telling_ her to move into 221B Baker Street. She didn't think she was up for another round of the Holmes Brothers' version of familial interaction, which mostly involved sniping and uncomfortable insight.

 

"Perhaps the relationship crisis can be put on hold for a short while we catch up. Apologies, Dr. Hooper. Dorothy and I were having brunch at the Wolseley when Anthea informed me that Mrs. Cavill had been spotted just outside Barts. The men who failed to intercept her have been reprimanded. You handled the situation quite capably, from what I could see on the security cameras." Mycroft bowed his head to her, and his smile grew warmer.

 

"Sorry?" Molly stuttered out. "They let you see the camera's recordings? What exactly is your job with the government?"

 

"A minor one, I assure you. Assistant to the chief undersecretary of the Chancellor of the Exchequer." His pleasant recital of the job title was almost convincing.

 

Sherlock snorted, and picked up his violin, attacking it with his bow. The raw sound tortured from the instrument began to give Molly a headache almost immediately.

 

"Sherlock! Please," she whispered.

 

He looked at Molly, eyes narrowed a few seconds before he lowered the instrument and contented himself with twirling the priceless bow like a baton with his fingers.

 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at Sherlock, and gripped the handle of his black umbrella tighter.

 

"You'll have to forgive my brother, Dr. Hooper. Mummy tried to teach him manners, but such things were _beneath_ him. He takes particular pleasure in mistreating my gifts to him."

 

"Oh!" Molly's mouth fell open in surprise. "You mean- _you_ gave him the violin? Or just the bow?"

 

"Both, yes. I wouldn't have bothered but Mummy loves to hear him play and it's one of his few talents that doesn't involve crime. I thought he might make a career of it when it became apparent he wouldn't be able to complete a degree at university."

 

"I was _able,_ I didn't want to. I was bored. Not interested in playing with _others_. In a lab or a bloody orchestra." He punctuated his sulking with a slash of the bow over the strings.

 

"Yes, I understand that now," Mycroft said as he tilted his head to the side and listened. "That'll be Dorothy joining us."

 

Sherlock sneered. "Obviously. New shoes. Are you dressing her up already to _your_ taste?"

 

Mycroft's blue eyes blazed for a second before the heat disappeared into his standard cool expression.

 

Dora knocked on the frame of the open door and poked her head inside.

 

"Have you lads killed each other yet? Or have you saved some of that bastard brother of yours for me, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and examined Dora for three seconds.

 

_No wig, hair freshly colored. Professional job, not all one shade of brunette but highlighted. Expensive work. Short hair trimmed and styled. Manicure, new coat of dark pink polish, top coat. Clothing looks like it just came off the rack, but the dress's already been hemmed. New shoes, of course, also designer brand. Fits her correctly, purchased specifically for her. Mycroft's work on the clothes and shoes, as expected. Lipstick not as perfect as the rest of her makeup- ah she's just had a cigarette. No, she's had two downstairs before she came in. There's the scent of smoke now. Mmmm that smell. Heavenly. She's angry. Been to the salon for the full works, two hours of coloring and treatments on her body yet Mycroft's on top of the situation at Barts and has already watched the footage…_

_  
_

"Some would consider it rude to ship _Dora_ off to get her hair done while you neglect to inform her that Molly's life was in danger this morning. I'd be quite angry too. Spot on, Dora. Give him hell." Sherlock winked at the singer as he set down the bow and idly plucked at the violin's strings.

 

Dora dropped her purse on the table and crossed her arms, glaring at Mycroft. He cleared his throat and smiled nervously.

 

"Some things needed to be taken care of, I'm sure you-"

 

"No, I'm sure you understand that I'm an adult and I expect you to respect that. I am _not_ to be treated as a child too weak to stand hearing about an alarming incident that has a _hell_ of a lot to do with me. Do you understand that, Mycroft Holmes?"

 

"Of course I do, Dor-"

 

"And I _don't_ want to hear about it from a bloody _text_ message from some fool at the opera wondering _ooooh_ have I heard that the Cavill woman tried to _kill_ some woman at Barts and was _arrested_! Don't tell me you didn't know, because I'm not stupid. Stop trying to protect me."

 

Dora uncrossed her arms and approached Mycroft. She faced him and their eyes met. He had the decency to look sheepish.

 

"Old habits. I…I'm sorry. I didn't want you to worry when there wasn't anything you could do." He looked down awkwardly, cleared his throat again, and brought his eyes back to hers. "Please, do forgive me. I'm…unused to this."

 

Dora sighed. "Well you're going to have to get used to it, aren't you. I don't really give a shit about most of the things you'll have to deal with in your job, but you can't hide things from me that have to do with my life. Alright?"

 

Mycroft nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

 

"Yes, that's-"

 

His response was cut off by Dora wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing the words out of him.

 

"Oh, so you've ummm…worked…things out then," Molly commented as the singer stepped away from Mycroft.

 

"Starting to," Dora said. "But he really is a huge pain in the arse. So we'll see how it goes. Trial basis, you understand." She grinned at Molly and walked over to sit beside her.

 

"Are you okay, sweetie? I know you're a tough girl, but Caroline Cavill was a bit off even before all this madness happened. I'm so sorry to have brought you into the mess."

 

"No, it's fine! Well I mean it's not _yippy!_ fine, but I'm okay. It's not your fault, any of it. You were just trying to do the right thing and the Cavills got into their nonsense with the diamonds and honestly, who could have seen that coming?" Molly impulsively hugged the other woman. "Your hair looks really nice, by the way."

 

"Decided to embrace the pixie cut, for the summer at least." Dora smiled back at Molly.

 

Sherlock sighed pointedly, unable to tolerate the chatter any longer.

 

"She's fine. I'm fine. We're all fine, isn't that lovely? You'll be leaving now, yeah? Leave the cigarette pack, if you don't mind."

 

"Sherlock, no!" Molly was used to his never-ending desire for nicotine, but it was one of the few things she would not submit to Sherlock on. Even the nicotine patches bothered her, because of the manner in which he abused them. She'd developed the habit of peeling the excess patches off him in his sleep when he'd finally collapse after staying awake for days on end. She'd be damned if Sherlock Holmes would die of nicotine overdose when there was a doctor in his bed.

 

The detective rolled his eyes and tossed his violin aside. His stony gaze found his brother and favorite target.

 

"Pay me. And Molly. Two emergency autopsies are worth a bonus, I should think."

 

"Ah yes, of course," Mycroft said serenely as he took out his chequebook and pen. As he began to write, he raised an eyebrow and queried, "Shall it be two separate cheques, or just one since you'll be cohabitating?"

 

"I haven't said yes actually," Molly jumped in to add. "How did you know he- oh, why do I even ask anymore." She threw her face in her hands.

 

"What do you mean you haven't said 'yes'? You're moving in. It's the only conclusion that makes sense." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he turned to stare at Molly next to him.

 

"I- it's not that I don't- can we talk about this later?" She half-smiled at the other couple in the room. How could she even begin to articulate her feelings in front of two near-strangers?

 

"Two cheques it is." Mycroft ripped two slips out of the chequebook, filled them out and handed one of each to Sherlock and Molly.

 

Her brown eyes bugged out at the sum. Sherlock tucked the cheque into his pocket without even looking at it.

 

"If you're done interfering, leave," he bit out, capping it with an insincere smile.

 

"You are so much alike, it's stupid!"

 

Sherlock's eyes slanted back over to Molly. "Excuse me?"

 

"You fight all the time because you're the same. Always have to be in control. Well, you're grown men and you ought to act like it…and I'll probably regret saying that. But I said it." Molly bit her lip. "You obviously care about each other. All this pretending not to _feel_ things, it's just stupid."

 

"She has a point," Dora calmly added.

 

Sherlock's mouth curled in disgust. "Actually it's probably one of the most idiotic things she's ever said."

 

"That was uncalled for, Sherlock," Mycroft chided him. "Though her observational skills are somewhat lacking in this instance."

 

"You're in love with her, your Dorothy, right?" Molly asked the man with the umbrella.

 

"I…" Surprised, Mycroft searched for the appropriate answer as Dora watched, amusement visible in her sparkling dark eyes. "Yes."

 

Dora shrugged as though his answer to the question was obvious. Maybe it always was to her. But her eyes still warmed with his admission.

 

Molly pushed onward.

 

"And when she was in danger, and you didn't think she wanted to see you, the first thing you did to sort it out was come to _Sherlock_ for help. When you love someone, you _don't_ turn to some person you can't stand or don't trust. You came to your brother because he's the only person you trust aside from yourself to help her." She thought for a moment. "And the violin, and the microscope. They're his favorite toys and you gave them to him."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft shifted uncomfortably where he stood, switching his umbrella handle from the right to his left hand.

 

"And even though Sherlock is the rudest man I've ever known- sorry, love- he didn't really try very hard to get you to leave. Not now and not when you turned up at my flat the other day. When Sherlock wants something, nothing stops him. So it's like…he doesn't really want you to never be around. And you keep saying the case is so boring but you took it anyway."

 

He shrugged. "I took it for the money."

 

"But you never accept cases just for the money."

 

"Molly, do shut up. You're rambling. " Sherlock stood and stormed to the door. "Your timely payment is appreciated, cheers, fantastic, thank you, time to go." He held the door open and looked expectantly at Mycroft. "Send Mummy my love."

 

Dora grabbed her purse off the table, touched Molly's shoulder in farewell, and linked her arm with Mycroft's. "It's cocktail hour, dear. You've time for a drink before going back to running the country, don't you?"

 

"I'll find the time." He looked at his brother. Their blue eyes flashed back and forth with familiar irritation. Molly thought to herself, _Maybe two men like this can't relate in any other way. This is who they are. In a weird way, it works for them. Friendly affection would be too boring and not mysterious enough, I suppose._

_  
_

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** _

_**  
** _

"Was that the door?" John's voice called from upstairs.

 

"Mycroft and Dora stopped over," Molly explained brightly. "Forgot you were here or I'd have called you down."

 

The doctor came downstairs and threw together a vile cup of instant coffee that made him wince.

 

"Need the caffeine. Filling in a few hours at the clinic and then there's this cooking class for couples Mary signed us up for. No new cases coming in, yeah?" He looked hopefully at Sherlock.

 

"Nothing expected, no, so you'll probably have to go through with the bloody class. I'll text you if any interesting bodies turn up." Sherlock set his violin down on the table and threw himself back onto the sofa.

 

"Right, thanks. Glad you're alright, Molly. See you oh, tomorrow, I guess!" John ducked out the door still carrying the cup of coffee.

 

"And that is the last time that mug will ever see Baker Street," Sherlock said knowingly with a small smile toward Molly. His post-case boredom would normally be setting in already; his 'refractory period' (as Molly thought of it) between mysteries was nonexistent, he was always ready for more.

 

 _He's unusually relaxed for a case being over and Mycroft having just left,_ Molly thought. Instead of pacing or checking his emails, looking for any intriguing messages from potential clients, Sherlock remained on the sofa, sitting still and staring off into space.

 

Molly was relishing the quiet moment, grateful to have peaceful time with just her and Sherlock after the mad day. Sherlock's drugging and the morning after. Caroline. Needle. John maybe moving out. Molly possibly moving in. Mycroft and their brotherly war.

 

 _So this is life in 221B Baker Street,_ Molly mused.

 

"You can't say no." Sherlock's voice broke into her reverie. He was tapping one long finger against his mouth. "You can't say no. You have to move in. I need you to be here in the morning and when I need tea and when I want to tie you up and when you're reading and not talking, it should be here."

 

"Sherlock, it's not that simple. I have a _lease."_ Despite her instinctive logical response, Molly's heart pounded and she had the urge to run home and pack.

 

"And I have a _cat_. I'm not getting rid of Toby."

 

"If you keep his box clean and the hair situation in order, I don't see a problem. And people break leases all the time. I'm sure Mycroft would help with that if it really bothers you. He likes you. So does Dora."

 

"Oh. Well. Hmm." She'd expected him to demand that Toby be tossed in an animal shelter. And the lease wasn't a true dealbreaker. Molly felt hope growing inside her. She was dancing around the real sticking point with these minor details, she knew.

 

He watched her, trying to decipher the struggle in her soft brown eyes and the shifting lines of her face. She was too expressive, that was the problem. He couldn't break her down into easy pieces the way he could most people. The more intimately he knew Molly, the harder she became to fathom. The physical details, he knew completely, but her heart… _There's too much. I need to see more._

_  
_

"What do you need? _Tell_ me." He ran his hands through his curls in frustration, shaking the mop of hair into a mess. "My flat is more recently updated, the plumbing and the boiler work properly unlike yours, I live closer to Barts and central London than you do, and you wouldn't have to pay rent. This is what makes sense. _Oh_." He sat upright. "Do you not want to be submissive all the time anymore? No, that can't be true, you love it. No one is a better submissive than you are. Are you scared you can't manage it twenty-four hours a day? Because we already spend most days together, and I'm satisfied with our dynamic."

 

"Sherlock, no, please, I love us together, that's all fine." Molly covered her face with her hands and tried to find a way to say what she had to, without humiliating herself. She couldn't. In some matters, one couldn't be bothered with pride.

 

Molly summoned every bit of courage she had but her voice still came out in a whisper as she stared at his chest instead of his face.

 

"I don't know if we should move in together when you don't love me."

 

There was silence in the flat.

 

Molly waited. She couldn't make herself look up.

 

"You said it didn't matter. You said it was just a word for a collection of things." He sounded puzzled.

 

"It is. But the collection of things matters. That matters." Molly lifted her eyes finally. Sherlock's eyes were shifting as he contemplated her curiously. _He's_ trying _to understand. How can someone so brilliant who deduces everything about people understand so little about basic human emotion?_

_  
_

"So explain it to me."

 

"Explain…?" How do you explain love? Physiologically? Psychologically? It was too much.

 

"Explain. Teach. Show me." He spoke slowly, his eyes steady on hers. "And I will tell you honestly if I think I can ever do that for you. I won't lie, I promise you that."

 

Molly's face came over flushed and she was at a loss for words. Did she want to know the answer? She was happy with their relationship as it was. Even though he was clueless, no one had ever made her feel as treasured as he did.

 

_But his eyes. There is so much inside of him, no one is as passionate and giving as he is. He'd go to hell and back for John and Mrs. Hudson and I think maybe even his brother. Could maybe he feel the same for me someday?_

_  
_

Molly stood and held out her hand to Sherlock. He accepted her hand and pulled her close to him.

 

"Alright. I'll try. It might be a little garbled. Um, so love is, it feels like…"

 

She stopped as he frowned, shaking his head.

 

"Not here. There." He tilted his head back toward his bedroom.

 

"Oh. Right. That's…Okay, yeah, let's."

 

Sherlock pulled Molly back to his room, his long legs forcing her to almost run. She followed his lead nervously, but with pleasure.

 

 _Might as well be in the bedroom_ , she figured. _Get to the heart of the matter. To_ his _heart, to see if he can ever give it to me._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Definition of Love

"I'm surprised it took you this long to get to the bedroom, after cases you're always so…" Molly giggled and smiled nervously as she followed Sherlock into his room, and sat on the edge of his bed.

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. He stood over her, peering down at her with cold eyes and his beautiful mouth turned in a slight frown.

 

"You're going to explain about love. But first, get off the bed."

 

She stood bolt upright, embarrassed. She pushed her shoulders back and linked her hands behind her back. She's forgotten herself in all the craziness, and oh just a few minutes before, she'd really laid into him…

 

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, seeing comprehension dawn on her face. "You were an appallingly bad submissive just now, however good your intentions. I appreciate the honesty; you must not hold anything back from me. But lecturing me, especially in front of others, is unacceptable."

 

Molly turned scarlet. "I'm _so_ sorry! I really am. I mean I meant what I said, but I wasn't thinking. I should have waited. It's been a long day. My head is still swimming."

 

"I understand that. And you're uncertain about the future of our connection- even though you do want to move in with me. That much is obvious. Take off your clothes."

 

The sudden shifts confused her, but Sherlock's nature being mercurial was nothing new. Molly's body instinctively followed his lead and trusted that his intentions were good.

 

She shed her clothes and folded them neatly on the bedside table, keeping on only her padlock necklace. The nudity made her vulnerability complete, but oddly she felt more comfortable as well.

 

She looked up at him, shining eyes and gentle smile waiting for him to decide what came next.

 

The planes of his face were smooth and strong in the afternoon light. His hair was still a mess from his frustrated ruffling of it. His dark clothes were a stark contrast to the paleness of his fingers as they reached out to cradle her cheek.

 

She shivered from their coolness, and felt the change all over her body that happened whenever he took control. The stillness crept into Molly's form, slowing the rush of panicked thinking that had taken over when Sherlock first announced that he wanted her to move in, leading to her outburst in front of Mycroft and Dora.

 

Sherlock's steady eyes were missing the spark of mischief she usually found in them when they were beginning to play. He stroked her cheek, and then slid his hand down her neck to her shoulder. He turned her around, led her over in front of the long mirror, and the pressure of his hand guided her down to her knees.

 

She sat back on her heels; shoulders back, palms on her thighs, looking into the reflection up at Sherlock. The usual anticipation was building in her belly, but the emotional questions pushed back into her brain.

 

Sherlock saw the turmoil in Molly's expressive brown eyes, and the way she fought to keep her face calm and unlined in the mirror.

 

He'd caused this with his assumption that she would obey him in regards to moving in as she happily submitted to him in all other matters. _Sloppy sloppy domming,_ he thought. Her submission was expected, yes, but this was the real world and common sense needed to be factored in. He'd lost himself in the easiness of their bloody _romance_ and the need to have her around all the time, and Molly Hooper, of all people, responded more logically than _he_ had. Of course she would expect an emotional declaration. That's what people _do_. It had all been so simple at the start. He never really believed she'd stay this long, that she'd still want him once the novelty of kinky play wore off. Once she saw what he was like all the time.

 

_Why didn't she give up like the other women did?_

_  
_

The silence stretched out as he considered how to proceed. He usually planned more than this when he dominated Molly in a sexual sense. He reached down and slid his fingers through her loose hair, as his eyes skimmed over her, noting the flushes on her face and chest, the tightness of her nipples, and her unconscious biting of her lower lip.

 

_Pretty pink mouth_ , he thought. _If you cover her eyes, you can still read her thoughts in her lips. She's wild then, if I allow her to be._

_  
_

Decisively, he pulled his hand from her hair and walked over to his closet. Reaching up to the shelf, he grabbed a long thin scarf and returned to Molly. One of his flatmate's poorer chosen Christmas gifts, the indigo scarf usually stayed tucked away as the thin fabric did nothing to keep out the chill of London winters. At least he had found a use for it now, tying the blue scarf around her head, blindfolding Molly.

 

A soft _"oh"_ slipped from the woman on her knees.

 

He smirked. She loved being blindfolded and nude for him. He observed her knees separate by an additional two centimeters.

 

With her eyes covered, her shoulders relaxed slightly and the tension in her forehead vanished.

 

He took in the two of them in the reflection, him towering over her pale lovely body, his black-clad legs obscured by her kneeling form. He felt calm and ready. Whatever she wanted from him, he could handle. He _had_ to. He didn't know if he could go back to being how he was before, when he'd given up on needing to have a woman arching and bending for him.

 

"Explain to me now. The collection of _things._ Clearly, leave nothing out. I want _everything."_

_  
_

_**~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**  
**_

Molly Hooper felt as though she were on the brink of falling. Her legs and back were perfectly balanced, she was in no danger of toppling, but the enormity of trying to explain _love_ gave her a sense of vertigo. How do you explain the unexplainable? This infuriating man.

 

She had no choice but to do, to _be_ , her absolute best.

 

"Oh- um." She began hestitantly. "It's…wanting to spend time together. A lot. You usually can assume you're going to do certain things together. Though maybe that's more of a 'relationship' than love... But you can trust that they'll be there when you need them, that they _want_ to be there. You want to stay together, though it doesn't have to be forever. You have a, a chemistry of sorts. You just feel better with them in your life, at your side. You _like_ them. Though sometimes you don't…But the parts that seem like the not-great parts, when you love them those often seem like the best parts." Her voice grew more confident as she founded her emotional footing. Her body was still and comfortable and she held her kneeling pose easily.

 

"They can bring strong emotions out of you that most other people can't. And you try not to hurt them. You try really hard. Hurting someone you love, it hurts as much- no it's actually worse than being hurt yourself. There's a terrible sort of helpless feeling, when you can't stop their hurt. I don't know, it's different for everyone…"

 

She chewed on her lip as she thought. He observed her cheeks, her mouth, her nose that wrinkled occasionally as she struggled to find the right word. Her face was a story.

 

"Life is better when they're in it. Fuller, more rewarding. Happier. Less predictable. More exciting. More frustrating and challenging too, but in ways you'd miss if they were gone." She shrugged and smiled. He knew there would be slight crinkles around her eyes at that moment if he could see beneath the blindfold.

 

"You're a pain in the arse sometimes, but life is better when you're in it, Sherlock."

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**  
**_

She stopped talking and silence fell. She waited for his response patiently, feeling centered with her blindfold on. The darkness and control always helped control and eliminate her nervousness, not to mention her inhibitions.

 

Two minutes passed and he still did not speak. Molly heard his breathing, steady and regular, behind her as he remained standing over her.

 

At first, she thought perhaps she'd said something that bothered him, but it was unlike him to hold back for long when annoyed. Then Molly began to wonder if he were falling asleep standing up. (Something that had happened after he finished an exhausting case the month before.) She resisted the urge to pull off her blindfold, and reminded herself to relax her fingers on her thighs. She breathed and she waited.

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**  
**_

After five minutes of quiet stillness, the tension returned to Molly's shoulders as her shins grew less comfortable, pressed against the floor. She was still a little sore from dancing and running around in high heels the night before.

Then she felt his cool hand clasp her upper arm.

 

"Stand. Turn."

 

Molly stood, still blindfolded, with his hand guiding her up firmly.

 

She was pulled into his arms, her torso against the smooth fabric of shirt, the buttons pressing into her soft flesh. The heat of his body emanating through his clothes made her shudder and she leaned into him, needing more warmth. His hands slid over her back, stroking from the edge of her necklace chain on the back of her neck, down to the base of her spine. She sensed the movement, as his head tilted and bent, bringing his mouth to her ear.

 

"Is that all?" he asked, his deep voice light with amusement.

 

"What?" she said, the anxiety in her belly rising again.

 

He pulled the scarf off her head and tossed it onto the floor. Molly squinted for a few seconds and peeped one eye again, feeling embarrassed now about her meandering spiel about love. Everything was so much easier when she was blindfolded and facing away from him, but now she had to face Sherlock and look him in the eyes.

 

_Is that all?_ So he was unimpressed with love. She had expected that.

 

It was stupid of her to let it hurt so much.

 

"Is that all? Honestly, the way John goes on about Mary and based on the ridiculous novels on your bookshelf, I thought your definition would be much loftier. Lots of metaphors. More costumes. That sort of thing. What you're talking about is just…" He shrugged. "Common sense. Normal us. I do all those things with you, don't I? I think. Hm. What's the _difference?"_ He cast his eyes to the side, brow furrowed, and twisted his mouth in the way she found both comical and oddly sexy.

 

Molly watched him think for a few seconds before actually processing the words he'd said.

 

_He does those things every day. It's common sense. It's normal us._

_  
_

She'd been waiting for him to fall in love with her, but she was the one who had missed the glaringly obvious.

 

_His actions speak loud and clear,_ she remembered saying of Mycroft's love for Dora.

 

_Deducing people's feelings is more difficult than reading their actions,_ Sherlock had said and indeed, she had failed to deduce his feelings from rather obvious behaviors.

 

" _You love me,"_ she squeaked out, her eyes suddenly huge and shocked.

 

"I was just thinking it seemed that way. Your definition is…acceptable to me," he said, his eyes wider than usual. "I don't know why you're surprised though. Feelings are easy for you. Stranger for me." He did look a little confused by the realization that he suffered from such a commonplace affliction.

 

"Easier is relative, I suppose, because you are not an easy man to love, Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, tears springing her to her eyes as she fought back laughter. She squeezed her arms around his waist rested her head on his chest for a minute before looking back up at him, a beaming smile on her face. "You impossible man. You torment me so much."

 

"Well, yes," he responded, the devilish spark returning to his blue-green eyes. "I wasn't quite finished with that, actually, if you don't mind."

 

"I never mind," she responded cheerily.

 

"Thank bloody hell for that," he murmured as he buried his hands into her hair, tugging on the strands as his mouth crushed hers.

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**  
**_

Sherlock didn't bother with the bed, merely pushing Molly back down to her knees in front of the mirror. He wanted to be able to see her face from different angles, to know if she looked any different when she came, her knowing that he loved her. Emotions had an effect on all motives, actions, responses. Really, there were all sorts of experiments to be done now.

 

Molly felt safer than ever had in any man's arms. On her knees, she reached up for Sherlock's zipper, wanting to take him into her mouth, but he brushed aside her hands and made quick work of his clothing on his own, the stack of clothes winding up somewhere across the room.

 

He turned her around, facing the mirror, and he could see them both naked and entirely visible now. He grew harder as her hungry eyes locked onto his cock in the reflection. Her lids lowered and she sucked on her lip waiting for him to allow her to touch him. He smiled slyly and got down onto his own knees, close to Molly.

 

"Crop's in the other room…I can't be bothered. Should make you go crawl for it, but right now I just want to feel you." He moved Molly onto her hands and knees, rubbing her bottom until she purred and rocked her hips. She looked up into the mirror, and watched him take her all in, his eyes narrowing as he catalogued her body's shifting reactions.

 

A serious of quick, light slaps all over her bum produced a rosy glowing sensation on her skin. Her flesh tingled and she had to make herself stay still as he increased the pressure of the warm-up spanking. A subtle tilt of her hips was the most movement she was allowed; that was their standard rule and her silent way of asking for more pressure.

 

He worked over her bottom, occasionally sneaking in a light slap on her sex when she grew too comfortable with the warm slaps. She almost giggled when she saw him lick his lips once. She knew he wanted to taste her, but he wanted her to beg first. Of course.

 

Sherlock took her to the edge until the endorphins were shooting through Molly and she was unable to hold back.

 

First she asked politely. Then she begged. Then she demanded, in desperation, and he gave her nipples a good pinching for being a pushy sub. She moaned and arched until she fell to pleading again. And when she thought she might weep from wanting him so much, only then did he take hold of her hips and slide inside her with a hard thrust.

 

Molly looked straight ahead and watched them in the mirror, her breasts bouncing and her hair flying as he rode her. She caught Sherlock's gleaming eyes in the reflection for a few seconds. He took her ability to concentrate still as a sort of challenge and responded with several fast punishing thrusts that forced her to drop her head and push back to keep herself off the floor entirely.

 

Her knees raw from the pumping movement, Molly rocked herself back onto his cock, squeezing herself around him and giving in entirely to him. Right now her body was his and she needed him to use it all.

 

She felt him speed up, the slapping sound of his flesh against hers growing louder. He abruptly stopped and pushed Molly onto her back, slipping his cock back into her before her body could miss it.

 

His gaze captured hers again as he reached a hand down to press against her nub in time to his thrusting. His other arm strained to keep him above her. Molly lifted her hips to accept him and dug her nails into his shoulders, needing to press into him somehow without dragging him down.

 

Sherlock pushed into her harder and faster, his hand working her bundle of nerves. When he felt her abdomen and thighs tense, and heard a stream of _oh_ s slip from her mouth, he knew it was time for the final push.

Molly came writhing and squealing.

 

_Mine,_ he thought fiercely, as he watched the flow of pained and ecstatic expressions across her face and felt immense satisfaction.

 

Another minute of thrusting into her and he was undone completely. He fell on top of her, sore head to toe and breathing ragged.

 

"Oh my god," Molly murmured dreamily as she patted his back.

 

"What?" he had the presence of mind to ask. He was dying of thirst but didn't want to pull out of her. Not yet. Not ever, actually.

 

"Nothing. Just you." She laughed, her body gleefully flooded with hormones making her lightheaded.

 

He rolled off her, thunking down on the floor beside her. "This isn't so bad."

 

"What isn't? Sex?" She raised an eyebrow.

 

"Loving you."

 

"Oh. That." She snuggled up against him. "Yes, I quite like that part. I like all the parts." Molly laughed again.

 

"Me too." And Sherlock joined her in laughter.


	12. Chapter 12

"We don't need two periodic tables of elements in one room. I prefer mine."

 

"Well you didn't have to leave mine on the floor," Molly muttered as she bent to pick up the colorful, laminated chart.

 

"That was as good a place as any," Sherlock said nonchalantly from his place on the bed, where he sat naked and rosining his violin bow. "Yours has too much…stuff on it." He waved his bow in the air and then used it to point at the row of historical scientific figures decorating Molly's periodic table.

 

"Nothing wrong with a bit of history crammed in there, Sherlock," she responded as she slipped her knickers and jeans back on. "What did you do with my bra? It was on me and then _poof!_ gone." She bent down to look under the bed.

 

"Chemistry doesn't need irrelevant personal details _crammed_ in there. I keep having to delete the useless information from my brain." He frowned. "Why are you getting dressed? Who's coming over? Oh, John. You'd insist on a shower before facing anyone else."

 

He smirked at the sight of Molly on her hands and knees with her bottom wiggling in the air, her head poked under their bed. He set the bow aside on the blanket and reached down to lightly smack her bum.

 

"Oooh! Sherlock! I almost hit my head." She sat back up and blew the hair away from her mouth. "Where is that bloody thing? I can't go without a bra, my nipples are still sore from the clamps." She cupped her breasts, the stinging bringing to mind the creative activities they'd been engaged in fifteen minutes before.

 

"Good," he said, watching her spin around and try to solve the mystery of the missing undergarment. He was rather enjoying her failure to see it resting on top of the armoire. "Go without a bra. Let it hurt."

 

She retrieved her shirt from the doorknob and donned it braless, shivering as the cotton material skimmed over her still-tender breasts. He was really challenging her these days, pushing her limits often. She was surprised how rarely she needed to use the safeword. She shouldn't be though; he appeared more in tune with her body than she was herself sometimes. He always stopped or pulled back just when she began to think about using a signal to slow or stop. The deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes were a perfect fit for a master, it seemed.

 

The doorbell rang, and Molly ran out to let John in. The doctor was still at Baker Street every other day for casework with the detective, despite moving out over a month ago. In the end, Dr. Watson was spared the painful task of telling his flatmate about moving in with Mary Morstan.

 

Immediately after Molly agreed to move in, Sherlock texted John, telling him to come back to the flat and pack his belongings. John was alarmed, expecting some sort of bomb threat or national state of emergency to be waiting for him when the taxi pulled up to 221 Baker Street. Instead he was met at the door by a bright-eyed, smiling Sherlock, clad only in pyjama pants and his blue dressing gown. There was nothing scarier than Sherlock Holmes in an absolutely _chipper_ mood. And there weren't any scorched smells or grotesque containers in the refrigerator to explain it.

 

And so Dr. Watson was informed that he needed to vacate the flat immediately. He was in turn confused, shocked, happy, relieved, and in the end, utterly amazed. The uncomfortable dynamic that he had noticed between Molly and Sherlock from the beginning had manifested into an actual adult relationship.

 

Mary was thrilled when John returned to her (and now his, too) place with a large box full of his things and a suitcase wheeled behind him. He neglected to mention that Sherlock was the one who'd made the big announcement in the end.

 

John still treated Baker Street as his home, helping himself to tea in the cupboards. He considered it payback for the years of Sherlock helping himself to John's food, phone, clothing, wallet, passport, identity…

 

"Sherlock, get on with it, we've got a case, a good one. Got a text from Lestr-" John's sentence was interrupted by a fully dressed Sherlock running to the door.

 

"Let's go. Why did he text you and not me? Oh, he's still angry about the file I borrowed. Stupid man." Molly heard his voice fade as he bounded down the stairs with the doctor trailing after him.

 

 _How on earth does he get dressed so quickly? He's like the wizard of nudity. Finger snap, it's on. Finger snap, it's off. Alright, now get to it, Molly,_ she pushed herself. The excuse she and John had whipped up to get Sherlock out of the flat wouldn't work for long. She figured she had two hours tops, before they returned with an irritable and disappointed detective who didn't have a case.

 

He'd punish her for the lie, for sure, but this was worth it.

 

Molly giggled happily and ran down to Mrs. Hudson's and knocked on the door. The two women got to work, with a little assistance provided by Mycroft's people.

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** _

_**  
** _

"You wanted me out of the flat; _why?_ Are you leaving? Did you want," Sherlock's fuming was cut off by John's hand on his arm.

 

"Sherlock, I told you it wasn't anything bad. Did my best, Molly," the doctor said apologetically. "Bloody _Anderson_ told him there wasn't any case on five minutes after we got to the Yard." He looked at his watch. "Was forty-five minutes enough?"

 

Molly nodded. "Not enough for a shower for me, ha, sorry, I'm a bit…" She gestured down at her grimy shirt. She sneezed and laughed.

 

"You've been cleaning. I smell Mrs. Hudson's god-awful perfume in the air, fainter near the door…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he walked further into the flat. "Stronger near the stairs. And she isn't alone," he added, noting the faint dirt bootprints of two men.

 

 _Comfortable but expensive brand, from the marks. Wide stance. One of them slightly bowlegged. Smearing of the prints, the feet slid around. They were carrying something heavy. But not Mrs. Hudson, Molly wouldn't be happy if that were the case and there's no sign of struggle. Mrs. Hudson is upstairs still…quiet but not quiet enough. She led the men up to John's old room with something. Something for_ me? _They went up and down the stairs three times._

_  
_

His eyes scanned the rooms again.

 

"Where's my microscope?"

 

Molly smiled hopefully.

 

"Can you guess? It's okay if you guess now. It's not perfect but um, the idea is in place and, I think it will be good?" She shuffled her feet and crossed her arms over her still-aching breasts.

 

His brows furrowed and his grey eyes were piercing as he tried to puzzle it out. She didn't see the answer there in his eyes, but she couldn't wait any longer.

 

"Oh, come and see! It needs more work, but I just wanted to let you decide exactly how you wanted it to be, um," Molly rambled until she breathed deeply and stopped. She held out her hand to Sherlock.

 

One side of his mouth curled up. "Fine." His eyes slanting up the stairs, he took Molly's hand and led her up to where Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly waited with two strange men and some pieces of unnamed furniture. John hurried up after them, curious to see the transformation of his former bedroom.

 

 _Clever Molly,_ John thought. _I think she's actually managed to figure out how to give him something he needs._

_  
_

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** _

_**  
** _

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Well, not a bedroom anymore. His eyes moved from the steel table to the waist-high item against the wall to his right. A desk was tucked into the corner. His microscope sat on top of it.

 

On the wall to the left was his now-relocated periodic table of elements.

 

"Do you like it, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson piped up from her spot, sitting in the desk's rolling chair. The two men standing beside her were grey-suited agents belonging to Mycroft, wearing incongruously practical workboots with their expensive slacks and jackets. Molly thought one of the men might be the fellow who opened the door to Dora's safe house but she wasn't certain.

 

Mrs. Hudson's face was a mirror of Molly's expression, hope and concern that perhaps they'd violated Sherlock's need to control everything in his little world.

 

He stepped into the room and opened two of the drawers of the steel table. Containers of gleaming instruments filled them, along with boxes of clean slides and neatly labeled bottles. A brand new Bunsen burner sat, unplugged, on the surface of the table.

 

Sherlock looked into Molly's eyes and spoke slowly.

 

"You…made John's room into a lab for me?"

 

Molly's brown eyes were wide as she waited for an emotional reaction- joy, anger, anything.

 

"And bought a refrigerator with a freezer, so I don't fill up the kitchen one with experiments?" He raised his eyebrows as he touched the waist-high appliance against the wall.

 

"Well, I thought you might want your own space. Not that you can't come to Barts and see me in that lab, I just thought….I just thought, this way you could do a lot of things without leaving home. I could help you here if you wanted. Um, it's not ready, it's not a proper lab, I know, but I think this is a good start. I've got to install fire alarms, and a lot of other detectors actually…it's probably not legal. But I wouldn't have to worry about you scorching my kitchen table up here." Molly smiled nervously.

 

"Yeah, that gets old really fast," John commented.

 

"You needed my brother's help?" Sherlock asked.

 

"He helped me find some things on very short notice, when I had the idea. Offered to have his people carry it, delivery is quite expensive. He didn't pay for any of the things, I did, so don't throw it out the window. If you don't like it, I can change it all back, leave the room empty again." Her heart was in her eyes.

 

"Do you like it, Sherlock?" She waited.

 

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I like it. It's a _lab."_ He tapped his fingers on the steel table. She saw a spark now in the blue-green depths of his eyes. He steepled his fingers, the peak touching his lips.

 

"Everyone get out."

 

"Sorry?" John's eyes brows shot up.

 

"Get out. I need to be alone."

 

Mrs. Hudson popped up from the chair, used to Sherlock's vagaries. "Come along, boys, I'll make you a cuppa before you're on your way. Pay him no mind, I'm sure he's grateful to ya."

 

"No, I'm not," Sherlock said absently. As the two men headed for the door, one of them passed an unaddressed envelope to the detective. Sherlock tossed it on the table.

 

"Molly stays. You go too, John." The doctor rolled his eyes while he saluted his best friend, smiled at Molly and left 221 Baker Street. He'd text them later to make sure Sherlock didn't give her hell after he left, but he had a feeling everything was going to be fine.

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** _

_**  
** _

"Moved my periodic table, I see. What if I want _yours_ in here instead of this one?" He stood close and towered over her.

 

"Then you can have it."

 

He stepped closer, until her breasts brushed against his torso.

 

"What if I want _both_ of them in here?"

 

"Then you can have them both in here." She tentatively smiled up at him.

 

"What if I want _you_ in here? Assisting me, I mean."

 

"You can always have me, anywhere." She leaned into him, causing her still-sore nipples to tingle with the pressure.

 

"I believe you." He leaned in and kissed her softly. "And love you." The lab was a ways from where he'd need it to be, but this was only a beginning, something to build on. "The note."

 

Molly's eyes were dreamy. "Sorry, what?"

 

"The note. Presumably from Mycroft. I'd have shredded it but- I thought you'd want to hear any news of Dora since they're still in Blackpool. I'm sure Mycroft can run the British government quite easily from there."

 

"A letter, how old-fashioned of him. Lovely." She picked the envelope off the table and opened it.

 

_"Dear Molly (as I am sure my brother didn't bother to open this himself),_

_I trust Sherlock is pleased with his little home lab. I do hope he doesn't_

_blow himself up. If he does, it's on your head. I used to trust Dr. Watson_

_to look after him but now you're the one. Take care of each other._

_In regards to the di-"_

_  
_

And here the writing changed. The thin angled strokes of Mycroft's writing cut off and a bolder, rounded hand took over.

 

_"My god, he goes on a bit dramatically, doesn't he?_

_What a pain in the arse. The lab idea is genius. If_

_he doesn't like it, he's a moron. Oh, Mycroft told me_

_not to tell you that he's gained a stone since we got_

_here. He looks fantastic. Went on a boating trip_

_yesterday and for a laugh, I chucked a massive rock_

_wrapped in fabric out into the water and I told_

_Mycroft it was the Blue Despair._

_You should've seen the look on his face. I ought to have_

_photographed it. Anyway, the real rock's in a safe_

_somewhere far away until I can destroy the damned_

_thing or donate it to a laboratory. I don't know yet._

_I do hope your man appreciates what a gem he has in you._

_All love is madness, you know. That doesn't make it any less_

_real or worthwhile. Hell, even Caroline knew that and she's_

_apparently locked up in an institution now for a long time._

_That's good._

_They tried to ruin me, but I can't be bothered to hate. Not when_

_I finally have someone marvelous to come home to. I'll see you soon, love._

_Yours, Dora_

_  
_

"All's well that ends well, I guess."

 

"Guessing? I don't guess, it's sloppy."

 

She giggled and slipped her arms around his waist. "You know what I mean."

 

"All is well in Baker Street. For now. Hopefully not for long, though. _Nice_ is boring."

 

"Then to keep it interesting, I shall do my best to be very, very bad."

 

"I like the sound of that," Sherlock said with a smile, wrapping himself around her tightly until Molly was locked within his arms. Unable to move away, she could only lift her face up to his and wait for his kisses. Her patience and perseverance paid off, and Molly Hooper was rewarded with everything she'd silently asked for.

 

_****_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Despair diamond is totally fictional, a mixture of several famous 'cursed' diamonds. Though there are a few versions of Napoleon's last words out there, all of them agree, his last word was "Josephine." He did divorce her in 1810 because she couldn't get pregnant. She was in her forties by then, so she was divorced in favor of a much younger woman for childbearing reasons. As far as I know, she didn't get any gifts in the divorce but they remained close for the rest of her life.
> 
> The layout of the Royal Opera House as presented here is entirely fictional.
> 
> As for the title of the story: "The Sweet Sound" is the translation of the "Il Dolce Suono," the last act aria in Lucia di Lammermoor, the opera Dora is performing at the beginning. Lucia is about a woman who falls in love but is forced to marry someone else. In the end, she murders her husband, and then sings this aria. Caroline's ramblings to Molly in the morgue bear some similarity to Lucia's remarks in the aria.


End file.
